Home

Was reflecting on my recent trip to Seattle a moment ago with a couple of friends.  I was describing how comforting it was to be thousands of miles away from anyone that knew my name.  It's a comfort beyond words.  Sitting on the shore, eating fish.  The smell of salt mixed with beer hitting my nostrils flooded my mind with thoughts I never had before....or sense.  I voiced words I never thought I would utter.  I felt like I had arrived home. 

Home.  A metaphysical ideal more than a reality.  Growing up "home" was always the place I wanted to escape from, instead of place of safety from the world.  No.  For me the world offered safety, freedom.  Home was the one place I never wanted to be.  The place I dreaded more than anywhere else.  There was a strange irony in calling my place of residence "home".  For if "home" was where I was, then it wasn't where my family was.  Where ever I went family were waiting for me.  I never could arrive.  I never could get settled.  I never could find home.  Home was always out there waiting, beckoning, calling.

I saw it a few times.  Dreams mostly.  Reclusive thoughts of a place far away.  Water splashing the shore.  People, strange, pleasant people living their lives, giving little business to mine.  Not in a arrogant way, or even apathetic.  Merely a tolerant acceptance.  Peaceful.  Wonderfully peaceful.  People that love....you....me.  Love you enough to ask you how you feel about cigars.  Love you enough to say that you need to have an opinion.   Your own opinion.

Are there bad people?  What is bad?  Who decides?  Are "they" bad?  I grew up being told that those that smoke were bad.  But my Aunt smoked and I didn't think she was bad.  I did learn that it was bad for me to be in a car with those that smoked with little fresh air.  Now however, it's not so bad.  As long as the window is down.  Sitting outside with those that smoke?  There is little that is better in life.  I even realized that as a kid, sitting outside on my Uncle's porch late one night talking with my Aunt as the cool breeze filled out lungs.  I grew up being told that those that drink were bad.  But my dad drank, and I didn't think that he was bad.  Though I was scared the night I learned he picked up me for a visit drunk.  Now?  I still don't like being around drunks (unless I am wrestling).  But kicking back with a Corona or Jack and Coke with some friends is relaxing.....almost like coming home.  I was told growing up that people that lived on "that" side of town were bad; to lock the doors when we drove down "that" street.  There are days when that's advisable, when Brian or Mike are too high to carry on a conversation with.  But there are also days when I pile them and their friends into my car and go out to eat, my treat.  I listen to their stories.  We laugh, cry.  I hear of their kids, their parents.  I learn how to make a rose out of napkin.  I learn how they ended up on the street.  I do what I can to help.  I learn that they don't want my pity.  I try to show that I am not giving pity...but really care about them...as people...as friends.  People I would love to bring home.

But not to my parents.  For my parents don't live at home. 

They say home is where your heart is.  My heart?  My heart is out there.  My heart is wild.  My heart is free.  My heart is home.  Not at rest...but at peace.  I don't know if home will ever be a place of rest for me.  But peace.  Whew.  I long for peace.  I have always longed for peace.  I found a comforting peace in the wonder of Seattle.  A peace I didn't quite expect when I headed out there.  Though I didn't know what I had found, I think I found home.