There was a time, and not too long ago, when I didn't consider going "home", to where I grew up, to be a holiday in the least. I wanted to see other places and have other experiences and send postcards to friends from other (read: new) places. Now I can't wait for summer to arrive and to make plans with my sisters and spend time with my parents at their home, my first and favorite home. Really, my only home, as my 20s and now 30s have been spent in a bit of transition and between homes from time to time (though I do now own a home and love it, there is a definite truth of home being where the heart is and that is my home in New York.)
This has led me to ponder the definition of home, of family and of purpose found in returning to the same place, the same home, year after year; how home becomes a pilgrimage the older, and the wiser, we get. When I suggest the "wiser", I mean that of the human heart growing and learning not right from wrong but right from second guessing one's self over many years.
Thursday, you are my muse.
