Mobile Home

We were in my brother’s house yesterday celebrating our family Christmas. My siblings and spouses negotiated a deal a while ago that our family would get together for Thanksgiving. And we’d all go to our respective in-law’s for Christmas. Then we pick another weekend around December 25th to get together.

I posted a Facebook status update on Urban Samurai last night based on a sign hanging in their living room. The sign said ‘Home is where your story begins.’ I said that the sign should read that home is where your story begins…and ends.

Some of the comments you all wrote highlighted the fact that some people’s definition of home is different than mine. Home to many of you is where your bed is. Where your stuff is. Where you are from. Or where your parents live.

Maybe it is because I moved when I was in high school and those roots that most people have, didn’t firmly take a hold in my ground. Maybe it’s because my parents split and moved again after that. And even that house is long gone from my life. Maybe it’s because I’ve seemingly lived a nomadic lifestyle after high school that took me to places like Boston, Philadelphia, New York City, and Los Angeles, and back to New York for extended periods of time. Whatever the reason, I don’t share that same sentiment with respect to the word home.

Home is not where I lay my head to sleep. Home is where I get my rest. Home is not where I cook dinner. Home is where I am nourished. Home is not where I tuck my kids in at night. Home is tucking my kids in at night.

There is a center to every human being where you are in complete comfort. Where you live in each moment. Where the inner dialog is completely gone. Where you feel like…you. Home for me is that center. Not some physical place.

The walls, which within you currently park your things, is not your home. Home is not a house, unless you make your house your home. For many periods in my life…the place I went to sleep at night wasn’t my home at all. This apartment is definitely my home now.

But home to me is not just one place. It is a series of places. It is wherever you take it. It is wherever you make it.

I was not in my apartment yesterday…I was at my brother’s house. But I was with my whole family. Every sibling. All their spouses. Both my parents. All my nieces and nephews. And of course, my wife and my own two kids. Basketball on TV. A beer in my hand. And some amazing home-cooked food. I was not in my apartment yesterday, but I was home.

Go home for the holidays this year. And I am not talking about any walls, or any roof, or any house where your parents reside. Find your center. Find that place that you internally call home and make sure you visit it. Consider moving back into that home. It is a nice place to reside.

When I said that home is where your story begins and ends, I meant that in the end, you should be at that home. That may be on the road on some great adventure. That  may be just inside four walls with a person you love. No matter where it is, your story should conclude…with you at home.