|Ornamentation on a building in Morro Bay|
It reminded me of how dis-orienting moving is. Even when it's our choice, at least momentarily, there is a feeling of disconnection ... of being without a "home." It makes me wonder what "home" is. When I was young and all my stuff fit into my 1966 Mustang, home was my books and my stereo and records. Wherever they were felt like home. For years as Richard and I moved from one spot to another, home was wherever we put our bed.
As I was unpacking, it was interesting to see what things made their way into the car that was crammed so full I wondered if there would be room for Missy ... or even me. Most of the stuff was the practical things I would need for the next five days before the moving van arrived. But, there were also "artifacts" that hold a certain power. Two bells that my friend Dolores gave me from her travels in the east ... one for Richard, one for Rumple ... bells that when they tinkle, remind you that the departed soul is thinking about you. A ceramic sun face I gave my mother and which hung outside her door for all the years until she died, A brightly colored sun-face flag from my favorite aunt which was in her room when she died. A mobile reminding me of life in balance that I found on my Joy Ride across country with my friend Suzanne. Two small plants that have managed not to die.
"Home" seems to be moving inward ... moving to a place within me. I realize I am my home. As much as I love my choice to move to the central coast of California, it isn't my home ... it's the place where I've decided to put my home ... my self. So as I sit here in this delightfully empty house on this glorious morning, I remember that I am connected, part of the web of life, regardless of the place I call home and the stuff I surround myself with. My only true home is my spirit ... the physical house and address I've chosen is simply the place where my spirit can thrive and expand.
So, as I walk out into the day, I realize I am home.