Whether it’s home on the range, home for the holidays or just plain home sweet home, it’s not a mansion or a split-level or a bungalow — it’s the place where you can’t always be found but where you are never lost. It’s the beginning and the end of every adventure, a moveable feast and a beacon in the profound gesture of the universe.
Home is the beat in your chest, the heart and mind continuum, and everyone you can fit inside. It’s your soul.
I live in a crystalline village of castles and cabins with blood vines of the past creeping up the walls of tomorrow. My front porch is haberdasher urban while the back yard is coonskin Crockett rural.
This is where my dreams rest and my soul sleeps.
My street is inhabited by denizens of sparkly souls with boundless energy and assisting hands. They’ve decided to trick out the block with Christmas luminosity this year. They even climbed my tree to help place the lights. We may not attend church, but we love the man who was born in a manger, spoke the word of everlasting peace for all mankind and was crucified for it by the ruling political party at the time.
In the book, “You Can’t Go Home Again,” Thomas Wolfe wrote, “You can’t go back home to your family, back home to your childhood ... back home to a young man’s dreams of glory and of fame ... back home to places in the country, back home to the old forms and systems of things which once seemed everlasting but which are changing all the time — back home to the escapes of time and memory.”
This is a fallacy. The escapes of time and memory allow everyone of you a return to the home of your past. The home of the future embraces new dreams and new forms and systems, as well as new opportunities and friends and a continuation of the relationships still retained.