There’s something about home that is effortlessly comfortable. Like a warm mug of java on your back patio, dog by your side, drinking in the sunshine in early July.
There’s something about your hometown that feels right, familiar, secure. There’s that feeling you get when you wander the downtown streets and duck in to the farmer’s market, visiting friends and smiling at strangers. The feeling of being in the heartbeat of the city, the core of the town. Supporting local farmers, taking in the different sights and sounds of a Saturday morning, you leave happier than when you arrived. You leave wanting to go right back, but ready to take on the rest of the day.
There’s something about home that makes you feel like a small child, but only in a good way. You think about the part of being a child that involves playing for hours at the park around the corner- up and down the slide, endlessly entertained by life’s little joys. Playing at the park shouldn’t end when you’re ten- the joy to be gained from a simple frolick in the grassy playground doesn’t have an age limit.
There’s something about home that makes the house you live in irrelevant. The feeling of home transcends walls- whether it’s a condo or a bungalow, the place you grew up or the home in which you recovered. Home isn’t so much about the physical, but is, as the cliché goes, where the heart is.
There’s something about home that draws me back in every time. There’s something about home against which my eighteen year old self rebelled, and something about home that my twenty-one year old self adores. Most of all, there’s something about home that I couldn’t quite appreciate or grasp until it was out of my reach for far too long.
Whatever it is about home, it just feels right.