Home

Where is “home?” Is home the place of one’s birth? The place—or places—where one spent one’s formative years?  The place where one settled in adulthood? But what is home to people whose lives define the word “wanderer?” Is home a place, or an idea? Or is it, in the final analysis, a myth? A wish for roots that do not exist or, at least, do not grow in stable soil?

I do not know where home is for me. Or, even, whether I have a home. Or have ever had a home. Even though I spent my formative years in Corpus Christi, Texas, I do not necessarily think of that city as home. Nor do I consider Austin, where I went to college, home. Or the towns and cities where I lived after school. Or the places where my jobs took me. Houston. Chicago. Dallas. Even in retirement, am I home? Is Hot Springs Village, Arkansas home? But if not a place, I do not know whereor whatconstitutes home. Some say one’s family is home. But family may be scattered to the wind. Family may be the remnants of the people of one’s childhood. Or, for some, family may be the people with whom one is most comfortable; friends, acquaintances at work, people at church…and on and one.

Family and home are ideas, not things or places. But ideas change. So, too, do the concepts associated with “home.” Maybe you can never go home again because you were never “there.” “There” may be an illusion, a wish, a dream, a desirea vision without substance.

It’s something to think about when considering whether anything or anyone ties me to a place or, for that matter, to people. Home may be oneself. And only oneself. One can go anywhere and be with anyone or be entirely alone and be home. Or homeless.

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Fear gnaws at flesh and bone because the ugly emotion needs the sustenance we too readily are willing to give. We freely feed fear, giving credence to  an absurd, warped rationale: if we feed fear, it will go away.  In reality, fear dies of starvation. Fear withers when faced with confidence and when confronted with a refusal to acquiesce to its appetite. Resisting fear is not always easy, but the effort almost always is preferable to the paralysis that accompanies giving it to its hunger.

To him who is in fear everything rustles.

~ Sophocles ~

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Sleep continues to elude me. I woke last night at 11:30. Then again at 1:30. Then at 3:30. Except for the last time, I was able to get back to semi-consciousness—for a while—within half an  hour. After the 3:30 waking, I gave up after half an hour of trying. Four o’clock on the nose. If I thought I could get back to sleep, I would return to bed. But each of the earlier attempts involved attempts to overcome aches and pains in pursuit of sleep; arthritis and its cousins made it clear by 4:00 that there would be no more conquests of arthritic pain for a while, so getting up was the best option. At least I can give Motrin some time to work…if, indeed, it will work, even a little. Dammit! I don’t know whether a massage would do me any good this morning. Maybe a steaming hot bath. Probably not. I’ll just tolerate the aches, instead, and complain.

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Plans and predictions change. If all goes according to expectations, the closing on the sale of my house will be complete next Tuesday, with funding on Wednesday. I’m crossing my fingers and toes.

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About John Swinburn

"Love not what you are but what you may become."― Miguel de Cervantes
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