There is a magical place in our own private universe that stays at the core of our being no matter where our life’s journeys take us. It is where we seek refuge when the slings and arrows of outrageous1 fortune have become too much for the soul to bear.
Home beckons the child in us who cries out above the din2 of conflicting sounds and clashing egos. It is like an unseen hand that lulls3 us to blissful slumber, a strong shoulder upon which we can cast our never-ending burdens, and an invisible light that warms the innermost of our hearts.
It smoothes our ruffled feathers, irons out the wrinkles in our overwrought4 countenance, and repairs the chinks5 in our overused armor —letting us forget our fears for the time being, bringing us back to more transcendent time when we were children.
Ah, the time when we were children. Wasn’t it the most pristine6 and sublime period of our existence? It is the time of our life when laughter was easy, dreams were for free, moments were tender, and troubles were a world away.
And home, sweet home, was the safest place to be. Inside its protective walls we were shielded from the inexorable7 pains of growing up, taking them all in, and letting them go. Its unblemished8 air allowed us to breathe generously the fresh smell of morning sunshine, the invigorating whiff9 of new mown hay, animals in pasture, flowers in bloom and soft breeze blowing from the horizon.
It is a virtual reservoir of the loveliest thoughts and fondest memories of our life, mostly well and devoutly spent to be wished for again and again a harbor where things and faces are warm and familiar, giving and nurturing, caring and everlasting. It bequeathed to us in no small measure the priceless gift of innocence, the wonderful feeling of mirth and the invaluable sensation of being forever young.
It is where we shed our superficial selves, repair our battered bodies, boost our wilting10 spirits, fix our tarnished11 psyches, mend our bruised emotions and change our evil ways.
It is that one warm spot in all of God’s marvelous creation where we could be children again —feet up, hair down, laughter perpetually etched on our faces, like goblins12 playing in the rain, romping13 in the mountains, running up and down barefoot on the shore, frolicking14 as if there wasn’t any worry in the world.
When we were in the simplicity and buoyancy15 of our youth, all that we had were dreams to spin, rainbows to chase, stars to wish upon, and dewdrops to catch. Home shapes the persons we are today. It stirs passions long laid dormant, letting it all break out and fall free. And we always emerge the better for allowing ourselves to delight in the breathtaking review of oft-trodden pathways and old, familiar places; the welcoming embrace of cherished faces; and the fond memories not at all faded by time.
Indeed, more often than not, we stray too far to places unknown in search of what we need, what we want and what we would die for just to have —and we return home to find it.