The concept of home is never far from my mind. And since moving to the North Shore, it has garnished my thoughts unceasingly: I have finally found my home. But what is home?
As a child growing up in a nomadic Mormon family, home was something I always wanted but never had. I sought it unceasingly and hoped that the next time we moved and settled into a box that it would appear, that it would be. But it never did. Homelessness is a concept that goes far beyond not having a roof over one’s head.
I was homeless. The years of my childhood and early adulthood were spent drifting from one location to another; from one set of classmates, of church congregation, of four walls and a roof to another. Home was nowhere to be found.
After twenty-seven years of searching, I have finally found home and figured out what it is.
Home is a state of being at peace within oneself.
For years, I sought after home in people, in buildings, in ideas. I never found it. I was looking in the wrong places. Urgency to find home built up to the point where I left a marriage, left Maine, and moved away from friends and family and threw myself into the hands of the universe.
It was the best decision I have ever made.
In stripping down to the core, I removed all the barriers to finding home. This new location, among these new people, has offered me comfort, acceptance, and love as I have never known it before. And it is here, in this sea port, that I have found the meaning of home, and thus found home.
This post is breaking ground on a concept and series of experiences that I will continue to explore on A Black Sheep in Boston. More to come, eventually.