The infant has it’s own joy because the world is not a mere road but a home, of which it will have more and more as it grows up in wisdom. With our road the gain is at every step, for it is the road and the home in one; it leads us on yet gives us shelter.
Thus I read to the elderly, and often confused, monk I’m seeing every day. She smiled at the truth of this. Smiled in recognition.
A friend said recently that she didn’t know where home is anymore. And I can completely understand having recently packed up and stored everything that represents ‘home’. Pots and pans, altar items, books and spare clothing. Not to mention my walking boots and sundry other items. Bedding.
My instant response to my friend comment was ‘home is where your heart is’. I said nothing and have been sitting with the question of what and where that is has been with me ever since.