Leaving Home to Come Home

I’ve been thinking about the word home. I hope it’s okay to have more than one…

What a treat and a pleasure to have two homes. Two places where you feel happy and content and loved and safe. I just got back from a week in England where I did lots of visiting and spent time with my family. It’s always so pleasantly familiar at my parents’ place; from the smell of my bedding to knowing the knives, forks, and spoons are in a different order to they are in my own house. I know there will be biscuits, peanuts, and cereal with the raisins picked out. I know, to within 10 minutes, what time my dad’ll walk through the door and who’ll do the washing up and when.

Slotting back in to the rhythm of home and all its idiosyncrasies is always easy. And that is why it’ll always be home. But home is also the place I live. In Germany. With my husband, job, things, life. And I am so happy there. I miss it terribly when I am happy and comfortable at home.

So is home really where your heart is? Maybe. But I think it’s perhaps better to say that home is where you feel yourself. Where you know you’re loved and know you’re okay. Home is not having to ask if you can make a cuppa. Home is smells, sights, and sounds. My home is here in Germany. My home is the house I grew up in. I’m lucky to be able to say that I’m leaving home to go home.

Where is home for you?

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