What does ‘home’ mean to you? Is it a place, a feeling, or something else entirely?

Most of my life, I’ve lived away from my place of origin, my home. Of course, ‘home’ can be defined by any number of factors and be in any number of places.

Over the years, I’ve been an official resident of seven different states, ranging from New York City to a small farm outside of Nashville, Tennessee. I’ve had houses I loved and cried over upon leaving, and others that were a relief to shed. Some I called home for a time.

Yet, when caring for my terminally ill husband, I once again came to where my people were. We needed help, and as Carl Sandberg says in his poem, Death of a Hired Man, “Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.’

Maybe that’s so, but my experience of home is also reflected in the next few lines, ‘I should have called it something you somehow haven’t to deserve.’

Roots, Riverboats, and Dreamers

My home roots run deep in this river town. My people were riverboat people. The generations before me are buried in the middle of town, in a cemetery that once lay on its outskirts.

I was always a bit of a wanderer. I bounced around the country, trying out different versions of myself. But when homesickness caught up with me, I always thought of my riverboat town, flooded with memories of happy meals around the family table.

Each time I returned they welcomed me. Each time I was embraced. Each time I was restored.

How lucky I am to have known love from the crazy, fractured family that I call my own. I come from a family of teachers, artists, salesmen and at least one good cook. They each followed their dreams, and they always encouraged me to follow mine.

You want to go to New Orleans to a very expensive school to major in something completely irrational? Sure! Follow your heart!

You want to go to New York and try to become a professional actress? Sure! Follow your heart!

You want to answer a call to ministry? Sure! Follow your heart, but please accept people as they are and leave your judgements at the door.

That’s what they did for me. They left their judgements at the door. They accepted my journey and the good and bad decisions along the way. They accepted me just as I am.

All the Body Holds

When I stood at their doorstep with a dying husband and overwhelmed by life, they said, “Sure! Welcome home.”

At this home, I learned about unconditional love.

Not long ago, I attended a workshop led by Bessel van der Kolk, based on his book, The Body Keeps the Score. His scientifically researched theory states that when life slams us with trauma, our body holds the memory. This memory is a trigger that throws us back into trauma. Our bodies remember as they prepare to survive once again.

Perhaps the body holds something else as well. Just as it remembers the trauma, I wonder if the body holds the love that created us and sustained us. We forget about it. We take it for granted. We lose sight of what a treasure it is.

Yet that love remains like an underground spring that continues to flow, whether we’re aware of it or not. It’s there and it’s up to us to remember it and give thanks for its bounty.

I give thanks. Not everyone grew up in a family like mine. Call it a blessing or luck. I know the unconditional love that shaped me was an incredible gift.

Of course, I didn’t have a perfect childhood. I’ve had my own fair share of therapy, but as I look back, it is the love that I now remember.

Once, after my mother had slipped me a little cash to help pay a bill, I asked her how I could ever repay her for this and for so many other kindnesses. She smiled and told me the wisdom passed to her by her mother. “You help others as you have been helped.”

Expression of true gratitude is simple.

“Pass it on.”

Enjoy and replicate. Give thanks and remember how you were once helped and loved. Simple gestures hold great power.

“Pass it on.”

And now, I’ll give the key to you.

Pass it on.