As I go about my day-off morning routine, I am awash with the joy of being home. Heck, I’m awash with the joy of actually HAVING a home. Off in the distance I can hear the train whistle, as I finish my morning coffee, and wonder how I’m going to spend the day.

I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I’ve ever been homeless. Yet, over the last year I’ve been in this transitional state of having a home, yet not having a home of ones own.

Last year at this time I had just moved in with my sister and her family, and was still under the delusion that I’d have a place within a couple of months. In reality it took me more like 5 months to find a job, and another two months after that to find an apartment.

May your home be filled
with laughter,
May your pockets be filled
with gold,
And may you have all the
happiness
Your Irish heart can hold. {IRISH BLESSING}

If I’m honest, I haven’t felt like I actually had a home of “my own” in years. At the cottage I had little say, as Tim’s Dad owned the cottage, and god forbid we change too much. His Dad was of the “change is bad” era, as I suppose his generation is probably rather tired of change (given they’ve experienced so much). I honoured that sentiment, but it didn’t make it easy… and thus I claimed the earth outside, and re-designed the gardens that surrounded that lakeside cottage.

I say that, I felt that, it is valid…yet… is it? What is HOME?

I suppose HOME is a state of mind. Even while I was living with my sister’s family, in essence I WAS home; even if it wasn’t necessarily MY home any longer. I grew up there, I spent my childhood there, yet as an adult going home is difficult.

Or maybe HOME is where I hang my hats, and where I lay my mats.

Written for the Weekly Writing Challenge