I was very unimpressed by the definition of “home”. It is just “a place where one lives.” The place we spend the majority of time. If work is that place, I suppose that work is home for some too.
For me, I realize that I am longing for home. Home as in a home for my spirit.
Home is not the US. It is not Bahrain.
It is a feeling. It is the relationships that are built.
A home is a place where you feel safe. It is where you feel comfortable and relaxed and heard.
“There’s no place like home.” “Home is where the heart is.”
I realize that much of my frustration comes from not having a home.
Well, I do have a home. But it is not my “home.”
Currently I live in a room within my in-laws house.
This room has nothing that represents me. It is not a place where I feel like myself. And it is not a place where I am able to nourish my spirit and feel comfortable.
When I leave my “home” to fill my cup of water in the kitchen downstairs. I must change from shorts to long pants. I must say greetings on the way to the kitchen. Even when I just don’t feel like it.
In the evenings, when I am on a drive in the car, I spend time looking at the lights in people’s houses. Some houses have harsh, white lighting. It radiates an energy of emptiness. The people living there may not feel “home” either. After all, I am sure many feel the way I do.
But other homes radiate warmth. Sometimes you can see a chandelier above the dining room table. Sometimes you can see a small reading lamp. Sometimes it is the twinkle of a string of lights in the garden area. I imagine the people in these spaces feel home. I hope they gather with friends, cook glorious meals, sing, dance, and love each other. I hope they feel that they can rest their spirits after a long, weary day. And find the safety it provides them.
Sometimes, in the glow of these lights, tears begin to fill my eyes.
musafira 