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This week: Home
Home is my comfort and safe space. Beyond the immediate idea of the walls of protection that a home provides, there is the idea of home. People who can be “home” to me because of the nature of our relationship. I am nothing, if not protective of me and mine. Curling carefully around tender places; presenting a well armored front to any that would trespass. On my heart – or on those dear to me.
|Waiting by the Window|
By Carl Holsoe (Public Domain)
Home means letting it down and letting it go. Where I no longer have to carry the weight of masks that protect and carefully cover any injured, bruised, or broken spaces.
Home means laughing hysterically – even if I look like a complete goober. Or sobbing uncontrollably – eyes twisted shut and tears coursing ungracefully down my face. Home means you’ve seen my goofy side.
Yes. I have one. And no. You probably haven’t seen it. It’s very rare.
There are perhaps a handful that have. They are home to me.
Home means grace – heaven knows I need it. It means loving me despite my continual falling down on the path; my ability to flay skin from bone with wicked words when I’m angry; my weakness for cheap curse words that leak out when I’m frustrated. Loving me in spite of that.
Home means I guard you with the same ferocity – I will wage the battles with you and for you. By your side and on my knees. If you are my home.
Home is staying for the long haul. Even when the long haul exhausts you and makes you feel as if you will not make it one tiny step further. Home says yes I will. I said I will. I am here. Home stays.