I find myself again in my little nook of the world I call home – a place where I can just sit and listen to music or read a book. This is the place where I drown myself with much pampering. This is also the place where I get to think about my life. And as I am writing this, cliché and touché it may be, I am listening to Jed Madela’s version of “Home.”
Suddenly, in the past 7 years, I had the urge to go home every weekend. I think of it as going back to my refuge, that in this place I can be at peace. I made myself believe that everytime I take that one hour drive back home, I’ll be in a different world where problems don’t exist. Everytime I am home, I feel I am important and useful. And after this simple retreat, I go back to reality with a sense of renewed vigor.
Why am I writing this? Let me borrow the words of my favorite writer Robert Fulghum.
“…there are places we all come from – deep-rooty-common places – that make us who we are. And we disdain them or treat them lightly at our peril. We turn our backs on them at the risk of self-contempt. There is a sense in which we need to go home again – and can go home again.Not to recover home, no. But to sanctify memory.”