Let me whisper a secret to you: I make homes in my heart for the people I meet, and there is a carving out of space and the decorating of the room, painting it bright colors, letting light and sunshine and cool summer breezes through. I want my heart to be filled with homes for the surprising, the challenging, the questions that lurk and settle and that kick up dust.
Home is a word for what our hearts do for each other - how we move mountains and rivers like chess pieces, how we clear paths through the murkiness and the fog, how we speak through tin can telephones the truth and the goodness and the beauty. Home is how we love each other, and how we journey through life, and more than anything how we manage to leave bits of ourselves in the soil of other people's hearts.
Home is a word for all the places I carry inside me: sun-soaked Italy, my gurgling river in England, the whisper of French lavender, the hope and ache of the Southern veranda overlooking hazy blue North Carolina mountains, the cornfields in Gilead, Iowa, and the mysterious places between, and all of the people who I reach out my hands to, wherever you are, who hold pieces of me as well. You are all home. ee cummings is right: i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart).