Could it be where familiar faces greet me at the door and smells of commonly eaten foods fill the space, leaving no room for the aroma of life outside that door.

Could it be in the streets I roamed so frequently that I notice when neighbors are unfamiliar and potholes were finally filled and when someone decided to renovate the old building that’s looked the same since I was born and bought candy there when food stamps were paper bills

Maybe home was the place I left behind trying to leave my childish passions behind and grow into a full grown woman, bold, new, full, every woman

But what if that familiar face became unfamiliar through the years

What if that smell of common food had to be removed after diabetes and heart disease started knocking at the door

What if the streets I once roamed now house to much danger to roam there any longer

Then home would be lost and so would I

Then I would be low and heavily burdened like the homeless

I would be the homeless

Trying to find myself a somewhere familiar to belong

Folks would feel sorry for me and throw me their leftovers

Give to me out of their pity

Shame me for not having commonness, common life, bootstraps, something to offer myself

Fickle ideas of home

Fickle…

I don’t want fickle to be my home.

Therefore, I let Home be my Spirit

Giving to me as I too give to it.

I carry it wherever I go.

Safe, clam, giving space inside myself

Strong, sturdy, nurturing place inside myself

I can go in there to pick myself up again and again and again, unshamed by judging, roaming, seeking eyes

The ones that sought to see me die

In this space reminders of who I am decorate the walls, and goodness reaches towards me and not away from me

God rests in this place, and cultivates the goodness

God rests in this place and cultivates flowers of self, love, growth, wisdom, comfort, courage, safety, humility, creativity, passion, purpose, being

In this space I have being, belonging, and always, always, always a place to stay for a while.