Coming Home

I am a restless soul. No sooner do I arrive somewhere than I want to be on to the next place. I have spent my whole life feeling out of place and longing to find a sense of home.

When I was younger I longed for travel, I thought that somewhere out there (cue song lyrics) was that mythical place where I would belong.

Life unfolds, often unexpectedly. As a young mother in my twenties I wished the weeks away, believing that at some point the time could come when I would find the job or place that felt like a fit. It is a sadness now that I was not more “with” that time, I did not know at the time how young I was.

On and on we go, through career studies and professional life. Each place had something to give, some gift to be treasured, a moment of clarity, the joy of sharing a good piece of work. My children grew up, my marriage ended, I found a new love. On and on.

In the past five years we have been on the move both literally and metaphorically. Moving from the home where I raised the children, into my parents home to tend to my Mum in her final years, on to our first home for “just us”, reliving the student vibes in a second floor apartment. Last October we made a giant leap out of my native Kent and here to Warwickshire.

Still that niggle remains, the longing to belong, the desire to be “at home”.

Today I was reading a talk by Zen master Thich Nhat Hanh. Thay invites us to come home to ourselves. To recognise our body as our first home.

I am not a friend to my body. I look after it, grudgingly, because this makes sense, but I do not love it. I have never felt comfortable inside this skin. Could this be the answer to my restless yearnings. To finally make friends with this oldest friend. The animal self waiting for acceptance. To breathe into the whole self and allow the earth to hold me?

I wonder if this work will bring me comfort, and finally, bring me home?

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