You may be wondering what has been keeping me so busy that I’ve had to disappear for a little while. Well, my friends, I will tell you. We are building a house! We’ve been working hard this past month finding land and designing our plans. There is still a lot to be done. But I thought I’d pop in and share a few things with you while they were on my mind.
So I tried to consider what home really means to me. I cannot quite put my finger on a definition or a location, but what I can do is tell you how to get there.
I am at home with Adam Trask in the Salinas Valley. I am at home with Stephen Daedalus, as he walks along the beaches of Sandycove. I am at home with Clarissa Dalloway, who is on her way to buy flowers in London. I am at home with Edmund Dantès as he seeks his treasure on the Island of Monte Cristo. I am at home in the kind of story which, after making me look inward, nudges me to lift my eyes from the page and find belonging in the world around me. I am at home in a book that envelopes me into its world and then challenges me to see the world around me in a new light.
The book itself is not home. The story itself is not home, and yet when I am reading, I am at home. The words interact with my soul and bid me to explore the world through eyes that are not my own. What a good story does is it points me home. Home to myself. Home to my community. Home to the parts of the world I have yet to explore. Home to my family. Home to God.
Tell me a good story, and you will take me home.