Every time that I prepare for a trip away from home, I begin to think about the meaning of the word. In general, the word “home” brings to mind a place where one comes to lie his or her head. It’s a series of numbers above the front door that represents the person who lives there.
Yet, as the time nears for me to begin the thankless task of packing, I realize home is so much more and that I am a homebody from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. Even as I am excited to see my out-of-state family, I am wistful leaving my zone of comfort for five weeks.
It is crucial to point out that traveling is one of the things that I would do if I had a bottomless bank account. I’d travel the world and the country experiencing untold beauty and countless cultures. I want to see these things, not read about them.My passport would runneth over with stamps from many country in the world.
Yet, I don’t think it irony that I consider myself a homebody. I enjoy taking any opportunity to spend time that I can with my family. I have three adult children and only two of them live in the Austin area. Even though they visit Texas regularly, I welcome every opportunity to bond with my grands. I treasure this time.
Yet, in my mind, “home” is my touchstone. It holds cherished memories, treasured objects, one of a kind art projects gifts given me over time by my children and grandchildren, and certainty that all is s I fet it. More importantly, coming home is a visceral experience, like entering a much loved sacred sanctuary that you know intimately. Then there are the people whom
Going away makes me remember that this is home and that it will be here when I return to welcome me with open arms.