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Home is a Place

December 10, 2011
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“Don’t worry,” she told me, “home is wherever you are. Home is a feeling, not a place.”


I have been reminiscing about my friend’s words that were spoken many years ago when I decided to stay on the East coast after college.  I have been remembering her encouragement, her positivity, and her voice in my head.  She wanted to remind me that I carry the spirit of “home” all the way from Colorado to the northeast tip of New England.  I remember her words. I remember them well.

They were nice words.  They were comforting words. But guess what I decided today?  Her words were wrong.

Home is a place.

Home is a place where there are purple mountains and fluffy snow and open space that stretches out for miles.

Home is a place where the skyline is not covered by trees, but open and exposed. A skyline that opens its arms out to you, as if heaven itself wanted to embrace you and invite you in.

Home is a place with a red kitchen, where my mom and sister and I move and chop and work and sauté.  It’s where my mom and I try new things and encourage my sister to just stick with what she knows (*wink).

Home is a place with a basement, where my brother will undoubtedly set up his new holiday tradition, where friends and neighbors and family members can just pack in and pack in and pack in.  At home, the basement never gets too full.

Home is where dogs run around and jump and lick and take up couch space.  Home is where you have to fight a lab for bed space, a seat in front of the fire, or a drool-less toilet seat.

Home is where we have to reset the internet because there’s too many computers for it to handle.

Home is where my bed is pushed up against a wall in such a way that my husband and I have to jump over the footboard to get into it.

Home is where we hang Grandma’s homemade hand-knit stockings, with each person’s name scripted in red or green yarn, and the frayed edges of Santa’s beard come off the side.

Home is where someone will always say something inappropriate at the dinner table.  Home is where we realize we are a family of over-sharers.

Home is the place where my insides soften, my oldest and best self comes onto the scene, and the inner turmoil and questions and over-analyzed east coast pace get stripped away.

Home is a place.

Home is physical.  It’s tactile.  It’s real and tangible and whole and moving.  Home is the bustling around of love.  Of bodies and smells and space that bring us back to reality over and over again.  Yes, home can be a feeling to bottle up and take with us.  But it’s the power of the place that makes the feeling.  It’s the power of the place that makes home something we can carry around in a purse or pocket or a plane seat.

Home is my place.

Home is my space.

Home is my family.

Home is my love.

Home is where I’m ready to be.

3 Comments leave one →
  1. mom permalink
    December 10, 2011 3:51 pm

    and we are ready to have you home!

  2. December 10, 2011 5:51 pm

    I love this post, Lauren. Having two very distinct “homes,” I feel like I live in a perpetual state of incompleteness. I find it hard to put into words what really makes up that idea of home, but you did it so beautifully. 🙂

  3. December 10, 2011 11:49 pm

    Oh, beautifully said. Yes, it is a place. And what we carry with us when we leave it are mental pictures of a PLACE and of people in that place. So glad you get to go home for Christmas!

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