Yes, I’m “home” today. Buried under my covers. Stomach pain. Dizziness. Thinking about home…what that has ever meant, to you, and to me. Is it a location? Where we hail from? Where we currently revive ourselves? Time and again I identify the road as my familiar abode…in motion, in transit, on the go…rather than a place of stillness and rooted residence.
But one day, when young and living in NYC, in deep despair, I sat on the Lincoln Center steps outside of Juilliard. It was there that my breath became conscious. Inhalation…exhalation. I was smoking at the time…smoking a cig just having quit my waiting tables job. On those steps a moment of insight took root. Insight that unwittingly changed the contour of my life.
The one place I may not escape, until “I” is no longer, the never ceasing rhythm of inspire…expire. And so where I call “home” discovered to be born of movement, pointing to a place of flesh, bones, blood, and air. Embodiment of earth and air. This home, so often neglected, unnoticed and undervalued, stays with me, sustains me; allows for float, root, and whimsy as I search for one place to create and embrace. To allow breath of play and sigh of relief move this space of spine and heart..where a recognition, nearly forgotten, breathes deepening of interior. Home remembered of unrelenting diastole to systole…vacuum abhorrent. The heart sitting atop the dome of diaphragm that may never not reawaken to re-membering where all of us, no matter how dim our reckoning, live…at home, again.