Home

Home is where the heart is.

Home is where you hang your hat.

Home is...more than a cliche.

I live in a house. I call it "home". It is my home in the traditional sense - it's a structure wherein I dwell and keep all my crap priceless family heirlooms. The house does not belong to me, but it's mine. Maybe some day I'll explain that.

But is it...home?

I think home is more than a receptacle for junk, a structure.

Much as I love Casa de Crazy (drafty, energy inefficient, not-green, monstrous cracker box thought it be), and its location...it's really just a house.

Home, for me, isn't a place, it's a feeling.

Home is with the Evil genius, Someone, and Mum... When we are together in one place, whatever that place, I'm home. Home is within the circle of Someone's arms, or the Evil Genius's small embrace, or the comfort of Mum's calm, sure voice when I call her in distress. It's the purring of happily nestled cats, content to pass the night curled up around me on the bed, nesting in the blankets. Home is in the small, fluttering, insistent movements of the Sprout as she wriggles and shifts, kicks and jabs, lets me know she's there and has taken up Irish dancing to pass the time.

Home is an abstract sense of belonging, of love, of comfort and solace.

It's devilish hard to define, isn't it? Where's home, for you?