I used to think of home as a physical place — until life took its course laughing at my so-well-made plans and habits. My parents passed away, my brother and I left, the building was sold. Maybe because my nature has always been the one of a wanderer, I kind of learned to call myself ‘my own home.’
I say ‘kind of’ because for a very long time it was painful, uncomfortable, and sad. But home is not just four walls and a couch, the partner or the parents and siblings we live with.
Today I think that home is the absence of fear for loneliness.
In the deepest and most silent part of ourselves, there is a treasure; it’s who we really are. Where each of us should learn to trust and forgive. To find comfort every time life sends us those disappointments which are so hard to bear and yet, they might never leave us.
As time went by, I realized that being angry doesn’t change much. Or trying to pretend that pain doesn’t exist. Actually, ever since I’ve been diving into it, my life has completely transformed for the better.
It’s never about the one-off thing we might lose. That specific person. That particular job. Every attachment is a layer of our home that can crumble any time — but the attachment is exactly what let us down.
To be able to come back home is a practice which slowly turned into an unaware and automatic necessity.
Finding harmony with what we can’t control is my way to give meaning to events. Lots of people see this as a weakness, but if we keep going too far from ourselves, from that center we don’t even know we have, it will always be hard to stand back up. Because we still have a path to go back home – if we want.