Archive for home

My odyssey

Maybe my odyssey is not about the point of origin, but about the point of destination and the story that will unfold as I travel.

I do not know where I will end up when the road comes to an end. Maybe I will end up at home, or maybe I will end up somewhere else entirely. The important thing is how my journey will be, because that is where I will spend the most of my life.

I will never fear the end of the road, since I shall see that end whatever direction I may take; it is the road itself that I must be mindful of. The story is never about the end, it’s about the odyssey that is life – and I shall have made this a good one.

My home is wherever you happen to be

Something about a mother’s love that I picked up from the local newspaper and wanted to share:

After nine months, my mother came for a short visit to Malmo, to see me, her daughter. The meaning of home for her too is fluid. I tell her that I want to make the best of our time together and take her to see the beautiful sites in Malmo. “Where should we go?” She asks. “I have come to see you. My home is wherever you happen to be.”


You can read the whole article here:

I am home

The book that I am writing, although mostly still only in my heart, is being re-written and again written on new, fresh pages. The story is as new as it is old and it takes me there, to a place I once was familiar with, a place that I used to know and lived in. My travels brought me far away from the place I once called home.

I am going back there now, to the place which once was home, and I find that the path is slightly different than I remembered – it’s still the same, but different, as though I see it with the eyes of the child for the first time.

The sea is calm and draws me nearer my birth place in a slow but steady pace. The winds are favourable and view is clear. I can see the shores where I once used to run as a child. The child that is still within me, me the man, the newly born soul with the open heart.

There is a beacon beckoning me home, steering me right. I can hear it sing through the air, brought by the winds, the voice of the almost forgotten. There is a promise of peace again. I can feel it as it flows through my once uneasy body.

As I land and feel the sand under my feet, I know that this adventure has only just started and I lay down right then and there, just to stay in that moment for a little while longer. I am, strangely as it may still seem to me, home again. I start to cry. I am home.

… and my heart is not at home

Some journeys start before you realize it. You just find yourself on the road to somewhere you did not know you were headed. There are times you think you are going somewhere just to find on the way that you not at all going in the direction you thought you were.  Those are the moments I find confusing. It must be like having Alzheimer’s; you suddenly forget what you are doing out there and can for your life not remember how it all started. There’s a road ahead of you and it looks like it could be interesting over there, and peeking over your shoulder there is no way going back, because you do not recognize the road behind you, so you go on.

All will be well. That’s all I know – or rather, that is what is always my guiding light. All kinds of crap might (or usually) come my way, but for some very and probably naïve reason, I still keep this faith, that all will be well. I will be very upset the day I come to the end of the road and find that it isn’t so. But then I guess it won’t matter anymore. Still, I’ll be very vexed.

I do not know why I always find myself on these roads leading somewhere. The older I get, the more I keep thinking that they do not really seem to lead anywhere. Am I going away from something or am I heading towards something? Sometimes I think that I am looking for home. I have no idea where home is. I haven’t felt at home in a very long time – if ever. I used to be longing for distant shores, but now I’m not as inclined. I just want to be at home. Again, it’s like Alzheimer’s; I forget where it is and maybe even more important: what it is.

Is that what travelling is? Looking for home? To find the pieces of the puzzle that eventually will make up one’s home? Whether it is geographical journeys or on the roads of life, I never seem to get wherever it is my home is. Every time I think I am there, it always seems to be someone else’s home and I have to turn at the door, returning to wherever it was I came from – the place I do not recognize, the place that says “home”, but looks as strange to me as it would to any stranger.

I do not know how many more roads there are ahead of me, but home better be closer than I think, because these shoes are getting worn and my feet hurt. And when I find my home I will lay down my hat, take off these shoes and rest for a while. Having done that, I will pick up where I left off and go on out again, but this time I will know where I came from and return before I get too weary. Going somewhere is easy when you have a home to return to.

Home is where my heart is and my heart is not at home…