On a Monday afternoon, I booked a one-way flight from Nashville to San Diego departing the next day at 3PM.  I had one checked bag and a carry-on.  I didn’t tell Dan that I had booked the flight, or that I had already decided to go until he came home that night from work.  He had just wrapped CMA Fest.  We had barely been speaking since memorial day weekend.  With an ultimatum of how best to keep our relationship alive on the table, I decided that taking the deal was not the way I wanted to proceed.  So I woke up and stopped pretending that I was happy.  I did what I did best.  I ran.  And for the first time in my life, I ran home.

Home can be such an ephemeral concept or feeling.  We often focus on a memory and what emotions it may evoke, relating them to Home - and when we arrive at our destination, we quickly realize that Home is not necessarily a place, but more of an existence that entails being comfortable in our surroundings and with who we choose to include in that construct.  A personal example of this, for me, is Christmas - I hate Christmas, but I get excited each year to see my family and partake in traditions.  Once I arrive at our destination, I am quickly triggered and the romanticism dissipates as reality sets in - the euphoria of being Home becomes momentary as I realize that the four walls, sights and sounds are not, in fact, Home.  Perhaps this is why the phrase, "Home Is Where The Heart Is" was coined.  It’s what we make it out to be.  It’s how we choose to co-exist with each other and the world.

Last night, I walked into my apartment and for the first time in I-can't-remember-how-long, I had a deep resonating feeling of being Home.  An hour later I ran out for groceries and when I came back, my devoid of furniture except for a large painting, two barstools, and a bed apartment, made me feel alive and wonderful.  I was Home.

Ten months ago, I left what I thought was my home.  I contributed to this home with my bare hands, heart, and soul - I gave it all I had.  I didn’t realize at the time, that I was not whole.  I was not comfortable. I was not happy.  I was not me.  

When I walked through my front door tonight, I observed my actions objectively as I casually placed my tote in it’s spot on the floor by the counter, placed my keys on the edge of the bar, and hung my jacket up in the coat closet.  This space does not need to be fully furnished or controlled for it to be my home.  What I am building, from the inside out, is what’s actually giving me piece of mind and comfort during this constant evolution.  It is enough. I am enough.  And it is good to recognize that if Home is indeed where the heart is - it seems as though mine is healing.