Home is where the heart is. Cliched, but true.
Today,
NaBloPoMo asked, "When was the first time that you realized that your home was not like other people's homes?"
Maybe I'm in the minority, or simply misunderstand the question, but I always knew my home was different. Moving defined my family, so structures were of little consequence. Home was where we slept, where we kept our clothes. In no way did four walls define our family.
Even as a young child, people wondered why our family moved so much. A life full of constant prying questions from people who just didn't understand.
I remember the story when my dad called his father yet again to tell him about another move. His dad simply said, "Boy, you need to learn how to hold down a job." My dad spent 30 years with GE, had an amazing career, but his path wasn't clear to a lot of people.
Still, if home is truly where the heart is, then aren't all our homes the same. Home is humor, good meals, tears, and coming together. It's balancing the hard times with the good times. When the pendulum swings to the bad, our youth is lost and our hearts cling to something else. What is home in that case? I don't know. I am blessed not to know, and my heart goes out to people who do.
Home is the memories we conjure up in times of happiness, sadness, and need. I want my kids' memories full of family moments, times we laughed and loved, not the look of their bedroom or particular furnishings.
I want them to embrace differences. How boring would the world be if all our homes, all our memories, were the same?
Early on, don't we all know our homes are different? Unique? Special?
*****
Mom wrote a post earlier this year about home:
House that Grew Me. Take a moment to read it. As she so eloquently said, "it’s not about a home at the end of the day; it’s about the people we love that
also grew up in the home or the many people who visited
. . . A structure is temporal; building and keeping relationships are
forever."
