Mi Casa es Su Casa

Every time I write it is a journey home. It is easy to leave home without trying. It is easy to look at what other people are doing and follow the lights of their homes only to find their door locked to my envy and my own house lost in shadows. It is also easy to call my own home unsatisfactory, having come to believe that dissatisfaction is the only inspiration for growth, as if the flower blooms because it is weary of its seed. But to be dissatisfied with this house is to leave it, and I soon find myself in search of what I have left. Fortunately, my home is always in precisely the same place. My address remains the same no matter how far I wander. Sometimes I can walk home, other times I must drive, still others only a plane can carry me across the oceans I have put between me and my front door. It does not matter. I am never lost because I have travelled too far but only because I have forgotten where I live.

I love to return home, but it is easy to see it as a sanctuary from the rest of the world in which I have felt lost. Tempting to close up the shutters and dim the lights lest the chaos I perceived come knocking on my door. Yet to close my door is to lose my home once again. It ceases to be mine when I call it mine alone.

The light that is home was lit for me, it shown where only I could see it, and yet to touch it is to know instantly that it belongs to everyone. How could this be? How could that which was made for me not be mine alone? Because to possess something is to become tied to the frailty of its passing, and in this home I call The End I give back to the world what was given to me, having found again that point where all our doors meet.

Write Within Yourself: An Author's Companion. "A book to keep nearby whenever your writer's spirit needs feeding." Deb Caletti.

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