July 5, 2020

A Home is not a Building. A Home is a Soul-Deep Resting Place.

Rebecca Donaldson

I look up at the sky and see the depths of my soul reflected back.

It’s the color of charcoal with a golden sun streak breaking through.

The rain has started and I am not sure whether I am swallowing raindrops or my tears.

It doesn’t matter though. It’s all the same.

I keep walking alone down a path that leads past a broken-down barn and a lone tree. Nobody is in sight.

I looked up at the sky again as the bit of sun leaves and the clouds darken to a color that resembles the eyes of a man I once loved.

Some wonder why I love the Pacific Northwest so much. It rains here after all, and the sky often matches the color of my umbrella.

I love it though. I love it as much as I love myself.

I have tried to explain to those not from here why the Pacific Northwest feels most like home. It may not currently be my physical “home” in the sense of a building in which I sleep in or a license plate that resides on my car.

It feels like home, though, because it matches the resting place deep in my soul.

I was told once by a therapist that home is wherever I am, and she was right. There’s a dwelling place I go to often when I close my eyes, where I am hugged endlessly. I feel it each time I put my hand to my heart no matter the location I am.

I find this same feeling in the clouds here in the Pacific Northwest.

I look up at the sky as it continues to darken and smile. It’s a mirror. I see my tears reflected back and realize the warmth that’s present even in my sadness.

I’d wanted to “go home” for seven years, having not realized that I truly am home wherever I am.

My dwelling place is the color of charcoal, and that’s okay.

It’s home, and I love it.


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author: Rebecca Donaldson

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