My writing teacher in her blog (http://www.roselle-angwin.blogspot.com/) suggested writing on the theme of home without mentioning where one lives or any of the places in which one has lived. As ever, she stimulated a flurry of thoughts, the first of which - having had a migraine on Saturday – was:
v Home is what I feel when the pain of a migraine is so bad that I let go.
I could add to that:
v Home is what I feel at the end of a migraine when my life is clear of all irrelevancies and I understand again what is important.
Some other thoughts:
Home is . . .
v walking in the countryside
v getting into bed at the end of the day
v being away from home and all responsibilities
v an ecstatic puppy scrabbling all over me when all I want is the wine bottle and the fridge
v the ‘Welcome to
Devon’ sign on the motorway
v waking to birdsong
v listening to rain on the conservatory roof
v watching the sun set behind the hill on a winter’s afternoon by the fire.
And the place where I’ve felt most at home, but is the furthest from my homeland:
But of course, most importantly, and without wishing to be sentimental, home is:
v anywhere, with Frog.*
* I asked Frog if he minded me putting this and he said, ‘Daft bat’. I think that’s an OK.