Home is the place where you are comfortable.
Home is where you go to be yourself.
Home is rest, and comfort, and peace.
We travelled a bit this holiday season, so that we could be with our family. It was a set of two very different experiences. One was a trip to a place where—granted, I didn’t grow up—but I had been before, and we didn’t really go out, but we stayed in, watching movies, resting, taking time to be together. The second was a bit more active, we travelled to a place where I had not spent any time at (a least as an adult) and we hit all the major tourist spots, ate out every single meal (at really great restaurants!) and yet, still had time to be with each other, and be together, and share.
Both sets of travel were the same exact length of days and even the same exact days themselves, just one week apart.
On Monday, we toured a house. You may have heard of it, we toured the Biltmore. It was 5 stories high, and built over a hundred years ago by a 33 year old bachelor. In room after room we saw new things, new spaces, new rules, new decorations, and extravagance upon extravagance. It took us Four Hours to see the whole place. As I hobbled along, I could appreciate the beauty, the creativity, the detail, but it also was more than anyone would actually need. It was not as big as Versailles, but it reminded me of it, as a copy, a trial to see just how big the owner could make this place. The place where someone lived and many people visited, has now become a practical museum. It didn’t feel like a home to me. My favorite room was one hiding off and away, looking over the grounds, but hidden, where people would have to be specific to go to. While we were there, it was filled with people, but I don’t really want to think about what it could have been like when people lived there… Cold. Empty. Echoing. A new outfit every two hours to go with the custom. And no home.
I’d rather be warm, with people I love, and not fancy at all. That would be home.