Home is Where?

It has been said that home is where the heart is. The scientist in me wants to dissect this statement. Though short in length, it's a powerful and significant statement that has withstood the test of time.
What is home? I think the definition is quite subjective, which the aforementioned phrase indicates. But is it the where the heart is? Ah ha, see...subjective.
Home to me is where I'm comfortable. All of my life I have sought comfort. Finally, in my own little space, I am me. The picture of my room would tell this story: The soft glow of the room down the long hallway distracted him from his conversation. He excused himself and made his way down the hall, and entered the room. He first saw the desk upon which a lamp was sitting, it's shade shrouded in some soft, silky scarf. Paper and pen. An antique curio table stood alone, proud to have an old manual typewriter sitting upon it's shelf. The bed was warm and cozy and smothered in cushy, down comforters. The mirrored closet reflected all of the quirky possessions within it, making everything seem larger than it actually was. The large, bay window in front of the desk was sans curtains, replaced only by a single strand of twinkling lights around it's perimeter. The glow of the burning candles illuminated the room in a soft, scented radiance...
I love my room. It is indeed, a very sacred place for me and I take that very seriously. Upon moving into our new home, I felt my room needed a highly spiritual consecration, so I invited my spiritual soul mate to come over and help me out with that. Bam!!! Consecrated... I practice magic in my room. I write in my room.I talk to my daughter on the phone for hours at a time in my room. I have pictures all over the place of my Grandson, Joshua, and the pictures he draws for me and sends me from back home. My room has bookshelves that actually house books that I read (in my room). My room truly is my sanctuary. But is my my room is where my heart is?
I recently traveled back home for Thanksgiving. I told everyone I was "going home" for the holiday. I was wrong. I should have said, "I'm going to my daughter's home for Thanksgiving." It is her home and this is the picture that story would tell: As she approached the driveway of the pink stucco house, she felt duplicitous in her emotions. She was both excited and ambivalent, concurrently. Once she opened the door to her daughter's home, the scent took her back. Her head was swirling, her stomach was turning. She remembered the trouble she had sleeping in this house. All the arguments and destructive words came flooding back. She shook off her thoughts and immediately put on her game face. The house is fully floored with cold, hard Saltillo tile, creating an eerie echo throughout. It is indeed, a beautifully appointed home, with a warm kitchen and family photos adorning just about every single inch of wall, however, none of her. The house is full of the sounds of children and the energy is that of beautiful, familial love...
It is a home. A beautiful home. My daughter's home. This home is not my home and I am not at home here, at all. My heart is sometimes here, my home, however, most certainly is not, so theoretically, home is not where the heart is. Home is where your home is.
Home is a relative term. Some might call a refrigerator box under the Burnside Bridge home. President Obama calls our National Presidential Palace home. Some people grow up with a hundred places to live before they're 18 and never have a home. Some people have a home to go back to until the day they die (at 105). I have had several homes, some owned, some rented, some the ones I grew up in. From the time my father married the step monster from hell, my home was no longer my home. I found myself in a home with thirteen other people who, too, did not have a home. Those people were home to me for three years. I have always been a nomad. Even in the depths of domestic bliss, I could not sit still. My family and I took lots of vacations. The kind where we're all piled in an RV so as to see this beautiful land by landing, terra-firma. I have flown all over the place from the time I was born. Home is still always where my stuff is. The first time I really fell in love, it was with an older man. He was beautiful and flush with cash, so we could travel anywhere in the world. We did a little traveling, but Arley was always more comfortable at home. For Arley, home truly was where his heart was. While I am a true nomad, I take with me my most precious belongings, from home to home, setting up my little squat for however long I can stand to stay in the same place. I am good with this lifestyle.
Presently, I have found myself in Western Oregon. This is what story the picture of Oregon would tell: The falling leaves of every autumn color begin to blanket the sidewalks, the sky is a rich, deep blue, somewhat periwinkle, and the air is crisp and flush with the scent of pine. As the people of Portland (and it's amazing surrounding suburbs in which deer gather on the patio) pass one another on the street, they say, "Hey." Once you get to know these folks, you begin to see that they are a different breed. They are not shallow, they are not judgmental, they are creative and accepting and diverse. I have fallen in love with most of the people I have let into my life, here in Oregon. The reason for the beauty here in Oregon is the elemental weather (wind, rain, sun ). Four seasons grace us with their presence. In the spring, the wind blows through the bare, naked foliage, spreading the seeds of life that have been quenched by the winter rains. The blooms are awash in purples and pinks and brilliant whites. Summer visits Western Oregon quietly. The season seems to ease into the comfort of the long, warm days. It's never too harsh and when the rain falls in the summer, it does so with the softest of droplets the Gods do allow. Summer tends to leave at a snails pace, hanging around just long enough to enjoy an Indian summer. Then fall comes around again. It is Mother Nature at her very best.
While I have moved around a bit since my arrival in Western Oregon, I do believe I have found my home, where the people are easy and the scenery beats anything Monet ever painted. My heart is in Las Vegas, with my family, but my home is right here in Oregon (for now, anyway).
So, I conclude...
Home is where your home is!!!

by Deannalynn Arzola