Today I had an ache. It was a little whisper actually that felt like it was coming from deep inside somewhere. Because I had no other distractions -- my phone was charging and I wasn't at work -- I stopped and listened to the ache for a minute.
The more I listened, the more I recognized it. I had felt this before. It is the ache for home.
What is it about the longing for home that feels so essential, so primal? It's as if the very DNA of my heart was reaching out for its resting place, like the urge in the Pacific Salmon that swim upstream hundreds of miles to find the place they were born.
What is this home that I longed for today?
It might be just the family and place of my birth, but I don't think that quite captures it. It is more than a place or even people. It is a feeling. We say that we "feel at home," so what is that feeling? If I could describe the feeling, perhaps I could find my way there. Perhaps you could too.
Home is . . .
. . . where you are understood. You don't have to publish a paper and site references to get your point across at home. Sometimes you don't have to say anything at all. People just know, and they get you -- or they are at least ok with not getting you.
. . . where you are safe. You kind of know what is going to happen most of the time, and it is not going to hurt you. Life is a bit more predictable at home. A horn isn't going to start blaring behind you for some unknown reason.
. . . where you can feel things. It takes a certain environment to move from the frantic focus on actions to actually notice what you feel and what others feel. When you feel at home, you can feel.
. . . where you can be creative. Earlier today we celebrated my son Liam's birthday. He had a perfect Liam day. One good friend, good food, lots of jumping and sunshine, a relaxed father, and of course creativity emerged. I found him at the end of the day building something outside with his friend. I think this is true for men as well. Just ask to look at a man cave, you will see come creativity.
. . . where work becomes play. I don't have to tell my son to play with legos. I don't have to tell him to build an amazing rocket ship that looks like a dinosaur. He "works" for hours not because he has to but because it is his. That's kind of the way I feel on a Saturday around the house. I don't feel that way around your house. Something happened when I signed on those closing papers 7 years ago. My life savings went into 108 Jerome St, and now I just love to tinker with it. Sure there are times when home management becomes work, but that is just part of the cycle. I didn't exactly enjoy putting my hand in a sewer pipe last Saturday, but, oh, the joy I felt after the pipe was fixed and the toilet was reinstalled and everything was all cleaned up. I think it rivaled Trump's fabled golden toilet! Work is deeply satisfying at home.
. . . where you have choices. Should I read a book or get on Facebook? Should I eat some celery or stuff myself with Oreos? Should I stay in my work clothes or get into jammies? There are abundant choices at home.
. . . where you have a role to play. At home, I am not just an anonymous worker. I am dad, husband. I do the finances and make pancakes on Saturday mornings -- and fix sewer pipes from time to time. I have a place that matters to those around me.
. . . where you have a history. There are memories, lots of memories. Yesterday, Logan said, "Remember when we first moved to this house and we thought it was so cool to jump off the porch railing onto the porch?"
I am sure the list could go on. Home is a lot of things, but the picture is emerging for me. Home is a kaleidoscope of nuanced features and feelings that can be elusive. Funny how I look for home in lots of places. I find it -- sort of -- so I keep going back to certain places. I found a bit of it last night on the biking trail. I found it this morning in Linda's smile over coffee. I find quite a bit of it at work. But home is hard to find, even when you go to the place you call "home." How many of us have traveled many miles back to the place of our birth in expectation of this feeling of home only to have the roast burn and Uncle Fred pontificate about politics ad nauseum?
Maybe it's hard to find home because it doesn't quite exist anymore. Maybe the home I ache for is the Garden of Eden. Come to think of it, my list here matches Eden pretty well. In Eden there was a job to do, options, creativity, safety, relationship -- it was all there. Maybe I am longing for Eden after all.
At the start of the new year, I began a new practice of spending time in dark silence each morning. The coffee is warm and the family is fast asleep. The first wisps of morning are appearing in the eastern sky. I ask God the same question every morning, "What do you think of me? Am I ok?" What I have really been asking is, "Can I be at home here with you?" Its been a hard question to ask. Waiting in silence for the answer is harder still, but I have been hearing answers.
I think it is the first step toward home.
