A Feeling of Home

This morning, as I gaze out my window on the world, I see the maple in front, the home of squirrels and a few birds, is becoming beautiful. I didn’t know whether the leaves would be pretty or not this year, but they are lovely. I don’t imagine the creatures who call that tree home care about the color of the leaves. To them, the tree is their place of safety and comfort. It is home.

When I was with the tour group in Ireland, we were all awe-struck at the beauty and the history of that European country, but when the week was over, we were all looking forward to coming back to the States, to our families, our jobs, our familiar and pleasant way of life. We were ready to come home.

I admit, however, that I also felt at home in Ireland. Not that I would want to live there forever if my family was not there; but there was a feeling of welcome and I wondered if it is possible that my ancestors, people who had been there hundreds of years before, left that feeling behind. I don’t know.

The picture is of the townhouse which was our last residence in Dublin before leaving. It was in a row of houses, no spaces  between. I believe it was five stories high and it had an elevator that creaked. The house was several hundred years old but it was comfortable, there was a sense of welcome and they served delicious meals. Dublin is home to over a million people and it was nice to be there; however, I looked forward to getting back to my own small house, not nearly that old nor historic.

I think the feeling of belonging and safety and downright joy has more to do with people than houses. It really doesn’t matter where in the world or if my abode is rich or humble, if the ones I love are near, I like it! It has a feeling of home.

Pembroke House, Dublin