#meaningfulliving — Public Fediverse posts

The Pull of Home

“There is nothing like staying at home for real comfort.”
— Jane Austen

Home is my favorite place.

I’ve worked to create a space where I genuinely want to be. Because of that, I cannot envision having a job that required me to travel all the time. Given a choice between another hotel room and my own bed, I know which one I’d choose. I’m quite sure I wouldn’t last long as a perpetual traveler.

We’ve all heard the quote, “Home is where the heart is.” Well, my heart is definitely not in a hotel room.

I’ve traveled quite a lot over the years, and I’ve enjoyed it. I have brilliant memories of places I’ve been, people I’ve met, meals I’ve eaten, museums I’ve wandered through, and sights I’ll never forget. There are places I would happily return to and experiences I’m grateful to have had.

But the interesting thing is, I’m almost always ready to come home.

Toward the end of a trip, something in me begins to turn homeward. I start thinking about my own bed, my morning coffee, familiar rooms, favorite chairs, and all the small routines that make up an ordinary day. None of these things sound particularly exciting, but perhaps that’s the point. Home doesn’t have to be exciting. It has to feel like yours.

With the possible exception of Paris, I rarely find myself wishing I could stay a few more days. Paris somehow manages to make me forget that I’m supposed to miss home. Perhaps that’s because Paris feels less like a destination to me and more like a place I could imagine belonging. Still, eventually even Paris loses out to the comforts of home.

Coming home after being away is a little like being reunited with an old friend. Everything is familiar. You know where things are. You settle back into the rhythms of your life without having to think about them. There is something wonderfully reassuring about walking through your own front door, putting down your suitcase, and realizing there is nowhere else you need to be.

I think part of my attachment to home comes from having intentionally created it over the years. A home isn’t simply four walls and a collection of furniture. It holds our history. The things we choose to live with often carry memories—the piece picked up on a trip, something inherited, a photograph, a book we’ve kept for decades. Slowly, almost without realizing it, we surround ourselves with the story of our lives.

Maybe that’s why hotel rooms, no matter how luxurious, never quite do it for me. They can be beautiful. They can have wonderful sheets, fluffy towels, room service, and a spectacular view. But they don’t contain my life.

I realize there are people who would be perfectly happy traveling from one place to the next, never staying anywhere very long. I understand the appeal. There is excitement in seeing something for the first time, waking up in a new city, and wondering what the day might bring. I enjoy that too—just not indefinitely.

For me, one of the pleasures of traveling is knowing there is a home waiting at the end of it.

Like Dorothy, I’m happy to visit Oz. I’ll admire the Emerald City, meet interesting characters, and enjoy the adventure. But eventually, I’m ready to click my heels.

There really is no place like home.

Peace be with you.

If you’re new here, welcome. I write about aging with grace, finding beauty in everyday life, and the quiet moments that remind us what matters most. I’m so glad you’ve stopped by.