I have been homeless twice in my life. Oh, I’ve always had a place to go, a bed, a roof, and people who loved me. The times were when I first exited my marriages. During those times, the places I stayed were with family. I was welcome, the interims gave me the time I needed to get on my feet, so to speak, and move on. The displaced feeling though was difficult for me.
This week, I have been thinking about the concept of Home. I love my tiny house, and love how much it is my home. I have mentally compared it to my home in the desert and my community there. The memory of the past home and the reality of the present home both give me a sense of comfort.
There are other places that fill me with the sense of Home, too, and this is what I have been pondering. One of those home-like places my “sister’s” home at the Lake. It is a log house that looks down the street to a full view of the open water. From the expansive front porch, I can see the other side of the lake in the distance, and watch the sky and sunsets. The outside is peaceful, but the inside is a haven. There is so much love in that house.
My dear friends-that-are-family pull me into their circle. I am not a guest there. For the time of my visit, I am a part of their lives. I have my “own” cozy nest of a bottom bunk upstairs. I know how to make coffee for everyone in the mornings. I am an active family member for the time I am with them. When I am away from the Lake, I am homesick for my next visit.
How fortunate am I to not only have my own tiny home which envelopes me with a sense of security and comfort, but to have a second home at the Lake, where I have grieved for the loss of my marriage, the loss of my mother, and celebrated my new circumstances. I have other “homes,” too, that I think about. For today, there’s no place like the Lake and my loved ones there who greet me with loving waves when I go home.