Home

What does that emotionally-charged word mean to you? As a self-described "wordsmith," I find myself in awe at its range and shades of meaning, as varied as each individual who uses it.

For all of us, human and so-called "lower" forms of life, it started in the mind of God; moved into the womb or egg sac or another safe harbor; and then it became a touchstone for our unfolding lives. To me it has always meant safety, refuge and love. For others, tragically, it is a place from which to flee -- a dangerous place where abuse and neglect take place; a homeland under siege with no relief; a war zone -- or worse. It can be a heating grate on city streets or a cave in the wilderness. And for the truly hopeless, even those with faith to feed them, it can be death, sometimes by their own hands, and release in the afterlife we all pray for.

Yet for most of us who are not born into privation and hopelessness, home is a place where we are nourished and watered, taught love, responsibility, language, and social skills -- where we are encouraged to spread our wings and practice to take flight when we reach maturity. If we are really, really lucky, home is also family and safety and even sweetness. Yes, there can be discord, but that gives us an opportunity to hone our skills in a safe place. We learn to argue and retreat, to cooperate and complement each other. We learn to ask for what we need and have the chance to practice gratitude and doing things for others.

When we "leave home," I don't think we really leave so much as take it with us like a turtle with its protective shell or a vehicle towing an RV.


See, we take ourselves everywhere we go, and those same selves are the ones we developed at home. And while we're practicing being grown-ups, aren't we really using "home" as our safety net? When Momma and Daddy died the year I turned 60, I awoke to the awful truth that if all else failed me in this world, I could not go home again. I was a trapeze performer without a net or harness. And believe me when I say it is life-changing and frightening to be alone and exposed in that way. How lucky am I to have had that other home waiting for me for a full 60 years? Most people on the planet count themselves fortunate if they have it for 10 or 20 years, don't they? And some never had it from day one.

"Home" can also be a state of mind. Some people are born vagabonds, and home is inside them somewhere, tucked like a handkerchief or loose change inside their pockets. They may be insecure people or people who are curious -- or even those like Peck who just had the itch to go. I wonder, though, how adventurous they would feel if they had no physical home to which they could return?

In our spiritual journey, "home" may be the place where we are free of our earthly needs and reunited with God and our loved ones. Old hymns and spirituals talk about crossing the river, getting to the other side. And having that kind of faith makes everything in our external life seem less essential. This is the quest I'm on now.

I'm preparing to shed my skin, my possessions, my conveniences and many of my responsibilities. I am, at age 61, ready for the solo flight: but only because I know that God and her angels will catch me if I fall. And after I'm caught and dusted off, I will finally be turned toward home again. How wonderful and mysterious is that?

Maybe when the shouting is over, it comes down to the trite but true statement that "Home Is Where the Heart Is," after all.