For me, home hasn’t ever been a place. I’ve called a lot of places home and little did I know those places would not last forever. I’ve lived in many houses, lived in many cities, and fell for many people. I once called every one of those “home,” but what is home?
Home is not a place. It is not a person. It’s not even an actual thing to me. I don’t want a home. I don’t want to be so locked down in one spot that I can’t strive to go a different direction. The reality is, home is not a physical object, it’s a feeling.
When I feel comfort, I’m home. I’m home when I go into my room after a long day, lite one of my favorite fall candles, turn on my dim night light, and open my bible. I’m home when I go to my favorite lake on the mountain and watch the sunset through the water. I’m home when I smell the first scent of Christmas or feel the cold breeze of the first snow fall.
Making one specific place your home means to be stuck in that place forever. Finding “home” in a variety of places sets me up for adventure, it reminds me that I cannot rely on one physical object my entire life. The feeling of “home” is much more than anything I could hold. It is something I’m searching for, something that I will search for forever.