home is where I am
I've been thinking a lot about the concept of home lately.
Do you know the song "Home" by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros? It has a heavy rotation on the Sirius XM station we listen to most often in our car. M looked up the guitar chords and we often sing it together (with Remy chiming in). It's a song we all love. It's a song we believe in. A love song.
The main idea (echoed in the chorus repeatedly) is:
Home is whenever I'm with you.And I'm thinking about that, and I'm thinking about the conversations M and I have had about our essentially serial nomadic life - we move to a new place, stay there for a number of years and then move on... and this suits us very well, but it also leaves us not feeling particularly tied to any one geographic location. Which is how I grew up, so it feels normal to me, but isn't at all how M grew up (in one house his entire childhood).
M and Remy are a large part of my sense of home. I do feel that all is right when we're together. We are close knit and that feeling keeps us together, during the shitty rough times and the lighthearted relaxed times, too.
But I know, I deeply know, that I cannot depend on anyone else to be my home. Change is inevitable. Someday Remy will leave to make his own home in the world, apart from us (in the best case scenario). I have no doubt of M and my marriage, but everyone dies, and it is a rare couple who die together (and I'm not planning on dying of a broken heart).
If I were to die first, I'd want him to live on and be happy and feel at home in the world without me. And I know the same is true for me. I can be on my own and feel at home because my real home is me.
My real home is me.
This body. This soul. This spirit. This oneness that gets called Alexis (and all my nickname variations). This interconnected collection of atoms that has a consciousness that thinks in "I" and "me" thoughts. My true home, this body, where I belong, where I fit in. Where I abide.
My real home in this world. This spacious, tiny, wonderful, amazing, difficult, painful, beautiful world.
This is what the work of self-love is about: making sure that my home is loved. Comfortable. Making sure that I am friends with my self, that self-love is abundant and real in my home so that I can weather any storm. Because I know without doubt that there will always be storms. And I believe that I can survive them until the end.
I can live in a concrete box and be at home, if I am present with what is, if I am at home in myself. If I unconditionally love what is: the good, the bad (nothing but thinking makes it so).
My real home is me.
I am my own beloved. I am my own home. I carry myself through this one glorious life.
I can help carry others (especially my child and my soul-mate) for a time, but I cannot ultimately carry anyone else through to the other side. Even if I die in a crowd, I die alone. And that is a glorious truth, not a painful one. I am my own home and I am interconnected to all of life.
I can only shepherd my own consciousness into the great unknown that is death.
This is a deep knowing, a deep truth. If I make myself my own home, I am home. I. Am. Home.
This is my home: me.
Do you feel at home in yourself?
And if you don't yet feel your own home is within you, what small step can you take today to turn towards home?
Take one small step, love.