“Where is home? Home is where the heart can laugh without shyness. Home is where the heart’s tears can dry at their own pace.” – Vernon Baker
What is home? A building with four walls and a roof? Or a place where you grow up among your loving family? More than the walls and the interiors of a home, it is the spirit of those who reside in and the bonding that makes it a beautiful place to live in.
We’ll always remember our childhood home and the vast memories of the times that shaped us. There, we were molded into who we are today. Our more recent decisions and defining moments are influenced by moments from our childhood. What ever it is, I return to where I grew up time and again.
Although home could represent an exact place or time in our lives, past or present, you will always return home. While your dreams and passions will lift you to new destinations, you will always come back to where you started. If you haven’t, think about and consider it. If not for you, then for your children.
Often translated “Family is where the heart is”, the original proverb identifies that with where there is love and acceptance, is also your home. Your home is wherever or whatever place you long to be—a place where there is no judgment, only solace. This really encompasses home as the place you love most whether it’s with one’s embrace, in your current domain or in your collective memory.
Home is where we can truly be ourselves. Where we don’t have to hide anything about who we are, how we are feeling or what we are thinking. Home is where we can put down the roles that we sometimes play and just let everything go.
What will you create?
“Home, the spot of earth supremely blest, A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest” – Robert Montgomery
“The spot of earth supremely blest”. . .what a great description. By gathering with our friends or family, and building up a collection of cherished memories and experiences, we bless the space around our homes. We create a space that is powerful – one that can carry us through anything.
“Home is a name, a word, it is a strong one; stronger than any magician ever spoke, or spirit ever answered to, in the strongest conjuration.” -Charles Dickens
There is, I think, something magical about home. Whether you are a kid finding the best places to hide your Star Wars collection, or an adult putting the key into the lock after a long day, there is something about coming home that is somewhat magical. You walk in the door and things feel a little bit lighter. You settle into your favorite chair for the night and your home embraces you; it makes you feel supported, taken care of, and at peace.
Home to us is a place that we can come back to and feel safe, secure and loved.
It’s a place where friends are always welcome.
It’s kids artwork hanging on the walls and school notes on the fridge.
It’s laughter and squealing. It’s intimate chats as secrets are shared.
Home is a tiny word but a powerful one and one so rich in meaning. It is more than a physical place it is is an idea, a feeling, a vision. It is something that we carry with us as we journey through life; it is not just something that we seek.
There’s No Place Like Home by by Jennifer Dukes Lee
Mom and Dad are moving.
There. I said it.
After 42 years, my parents are leaving the 110-year-old, three-story house that served as the backdrop for my growing-up life – a silent witness to my first teetering steps, first fumbling prayers, first teenage crushes. I remember standing at the top of those wide wooden stairs at age five, in pajamas on Christmas morning; at age 18, with a mortar board bobby-pinned to my hair; at 23, dressed in white satin.
The old place knew all of my first loves because their pictures were taped to the walls: Scott Baio, Michael Jackson, Donny Osmond … and E.T.
It also knew every misdeed: the time my brother John and I decapitated the Barbies and hid them behind the radiator; Christmas Eve of 1975 when I devoured a whole plateful of Spritz cookies in the pantry; when my sisters and I composed typewritten letters by a ghost named The Draft – we slipped the notes under the bedroom door of our brother, who was convinced that a specter haunted the darkened hallways of our home.
In that old house on West Athens Street – where lilacs blossomed every spring and mums bloomed every fall – I learned what it meant to laugh and love and live as family.
And now, I’m trying to figure out how to say goodbye.
That house and I were playmates, and we knew each other’s secrets. The wooden banister was my first slide. Dad in his recliner, my first see-saw. The basement storeroom, my first roller-rink. On summer afternoons, I shimmied up the evergreen spires to climb onto the roof of a friend. Up there, sprawled out on her gigantic shingled lap, I would stare at the sky and daydream. She never seemed to mind if I didn’t feel like talking.
This morning, I pick up the phone to dial the numbers that connect me to home, digits I memorized back in preschool. It hits me: By June, I’ll never again dial that phone number.
Mom answers on the third ring with a sunny hello. She recites the list of things to sell, to give away, to box up. Even if her four grown children aren’t ready, she is. Or, at least, it sounds like she’s ready. I hear the resolve in her voice. Then again, I wonder if she hears the same thing in my voice – cheery and affirming – when she reminds me that the movers will come soon.
And just like that, our life stage will be emptied of its props and actors.
We’re 100 miles apart, Mom and I, but if I squint the mind’s eye, I can see her standing in the laundry room. Her bare feet are anchored, almost seamlessly, to that cool, cracked cement floor. The house has become such a part of our family that I can barely distinguish the structure from the inhabitants.
The house feels like a second skin. I know every wrinkle, bruise, scar and age-spot. I even know the bones that creak loudest – third stair from the top. I knew to skip that step when I came home past curfew.
We were tight, that old house and I. Look at that, would you? I’m already talking about her in the past-tense.
But it’s time. It really is. Mom and Dad are in their 70s, and old knees fare better with one-level living.
Still. Goodbyes are hard, aren’t they?
In the home where I live now, we’re passing a legacy of rootedness to my own children. When we built this house nine years ago, we made room for a built-in bench by the kitchen table – just like the bench on which I ate every meal growing up. We also installed a stained-glass window, a replica of the one that stretches across the wall back home.
In this house – my house – I set a wooden plaque on the laundry-room windowsill that reads: “My home isn’t a place. It’s people.”
I get that. I really do. But I’m still going to grieve a while longer. For I’m going to miss that splendidly creaky home that will always whisper bits of our life-story in every cobwebbed corner.
“Home is the place where it feels right to walk around without shoes.”
In Chris Daughtry’s Home “…I’m going to a place where love and feeling good don’t ever cost a thing … Im going home back to a place where I belong and where your love has always been enough for me … ” Even after succeeding in his dream (and getting more than he wished for), there is no place where he can substitute the love he identified with where you know people who will always believe in you.
What does the phrase home is where the heart is mean………………….
Your true home is with the person or the place you love the most
It mean it’s where your life is…. That’s where the love is. the home is usually where you base your life from…. and your body runs centrally from you heart.
It means that one might go to work, to lunch, to dinner, to a movie or play, to parties, to a fine restaurant, but that when all that is over, your own home is where your love, activities, best things you have–all these things are where your heart is.
Our homes are a reflection of who we are.
They are one huge canvas that each of us chooses how to decorate.
They are our personal space in this huge universe.
They evolve and change just as we do.
We fill them with people and things we treasure and love.
Their walls hold our treasured memories, and so much that we hold dear.
They become our safe havens, our respite from the rest of the world
And that is what I believe makes a house a home.
Trust me, walls do talk !
A home tells a lot about the person living there.
“The ache for home lives in all of us, the safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned.” Maya Angelou
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