When you’ve been uprooted several times in your life, the overall sense of having a “home” gets lost somehow. It is sad, but true in every sense of the word H-O-M-E.
Because of my predilection to do a lot of musing, my ever-meandering thoughts brought me to the realization that I never really did have a home. Then, I began to expound on my musing by remembering some people I know who never really appreciated being born, raised and had stayed in one place. They often find a lot of different reasons to get out of the place where they learned everything they knew and where all the people who knew and loved them lived. In short, they don’t appreciate what they have. And for someone who never had that privilege to stay in one place long enough to call it a “home“, I pity them.
I am someone who never had a chance to go back where it all began, have a deep sense of welcome and belonging and at the end of the day, telling yourself . . . “It’s good to be home.” I don’t have that. What I had throughout these years are just brick and mortar dwellings where I get to sleep, shower, work and watch TV.
There’s definitely something more substantial and heartwarming when you have a childhood home where you can return to, reminisce the good ‘ol days, and just be yourself – stripped of all the jadedness and cynical trapping you’ve grown through the years. I want something like that. But I guess it’s too late for me to have that.
All I can do now is to build a home for the future, create a sanctuary for my future kids and maybe they can have what I never had. They might settle somewhere else when they get older and have their own families. They might be too posh, stay in a high-rise building with their own butler in tow. But when the burden of being an adult is weighing on their shoulders too heavily and they needed to unwind, they will have somewhere they could return to and just be themselves to keep calm and relax.
That’s a wish worth working for . . .