People have written to ask where, or with whom, I think my home is.
You would think that someone my age would have all the answers to things like this, but I don’t.
I was sitting in my apartment a few days ago and it suddenly struck me how much I loved where I was. Not the apartment complex, or the city, just the room where my own “things” surrounded me.
Now that makes sense for a woman in her sixties, but not really when you consider that almost all of my “things” are less than two years old. Other than my books, my music, my pillow and sheets, some jewelry and a few small objets d'art everything here is new.
I am not surrounded by a lifetime of memories, or family antiques. Other than an overstuffed couch and chair, my furniture is simple, stark and modern, more utilitarian than stylish.
Somehow, for me, “home” is a state of mind more than anything else and that state changes quite frequently.
The constants are the people I write to nearly every day, those connections of the mind and heart that tie me to this earth. Other than that, I’m not sure where home is.
Ask me the same question tomorrow and I might have a different answer.
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