Get home. The "homebody" I'm trying to be.

Nope, I am not really saying I long for the agoraphobic comforts of not leaving the house. Sure, one could categorize my last week as "my disappearance." If I'm being honest with myself, no one really cared, and I'm perfectly fine with that. It's a state or a luxury really, that I have failed to explore for the last 37 years.

It took some time for me to really grasp it. Bastille's song: "Get Home" kept appearing in my shuffle list. A near stranger sent me a quote using the words "stay at home.", and then my mother, in an attempt to remind me to keep within myself, said "Try to stay home." None of the references meant literally, which revealed how my week was a living homage to those two words, in both contexts: GET HOME 

"How am I gonna get myself back home?"  "We are the last pretenders..."  

"To the morning we are cast out, but I know we'll land here again."

Life has a way of settling into a state of constant noise and routine. I can't remember the last time a TV wasn't on, or music wasn't playing in each and every store or restaurant we frequent. The car-rides have radio announcers or news, music channels and radio streams bump and beat to a generalized, all too lacking, soundtrack.  Anything to cover up the bombardment of thoughts that bounce and flit off the corners in a mind never quieted. My agitation is both self-perpetuated and droned on through the outside forces of all the stimuli around me.

Then there is my grounded, daily life, which is embarrassingly chaotic and lately ever-fluid . I feel like I need a go-pro in my brain and on my forehead. This way I could climb into bed each night and play the events back. I could rewind or pause to keep everything and document it. Instead I'm chasing little flickers. Try as I may to catch fireflies in the dark, thoughts like winged lights whizzing around. My net is too small, my child-like hands too uncoordinated and they elude me. My own calm and mindfulness an apparition I think I know is there but can't recall.

Last week a theme replayed. It floated past and around me like the quiet humming of a tune you know. The words arose and fell away rhythmically in the small moments that I steeled myself for the next crashing wave of newness, unfamiliar and imminent change.

Home is a refuge, a secret den where you are not judged on your feelings or faults. It's where "I know it's a mess." "You are allowed to feel that." and "I still accept you." are words spoken in a quiet, embracing whisper. Home won't be angry at how long you've been gone. No punishment is given for random departures, or long stints of travel away. Always accessible, and always with a compassionate smile, home awaits. 

I neither insult your intelligence nor believe that such a term carries any meaning for you. To me, right now, it means everything. I imagine "home" as the warmly-lit walls inside.  The decor and energy of it inviting, safe and filled specifically with only the air of what serves YOU. This place will  protect, hold you in, and has always been, and always will be. It is a shelter when it feels like there is no where else, no haven or oasis in the doubt-driven, multiplying place of regret and shock. 

Its very simple, as some of the most profound ideas are. Simplifying is one of my new goals. So is being "home" again. Today, everyday and with great understanding and acceptance of it's value, I'm trying to get home. 

Be home within yourself. Be home where it is safe.

 Be home to digest and 
be home to regain the balance.

 Be home to truly relax and feel whole. 

Be home to find simplicity and peace. 

Be home to find yourself. 

 Get home.