When does house become home? When we build it, furnish it, decorate it? spend a season or years in it? Cook, clean and make “to-do” lists in it? Make the beds and hang the art? Listen to music or make the music that dwells between the walls? When we live time in it? Make memories and love in it? Leave it and return?
I knew this once. Where to find home. Home came easy. Seemed easy when I was younger. Now I look for home everywhere and it seems to be nowhere. Home is peace. I think home must be when I breath in and out. I must practice. Breathing in and out. And maybe then home will appear before me in the time between breaths.