There's No Place Like It

I was standing at the back of the crowd on the Astoria's dance floor last night, listening to Fountains of Wayne. They're a power pop band from New Jersey, and they'd pulled in a crowd of loyal fans into a smallish club in London. The boys were at home on the stage. The crowd was definitely at home with the band (are there really that many transplanted 20-somethings from Jersey in London?). And me, I was just enjoying the tightly constructed guitar riffs and the catchy lyrics, which are often all about living in New York City ... a place I called home for over a dozen years.

Home. It's a odd concept, isn't it? I've pondered it before. As adults, most of us pay good money for our own places to live, but we often talk about "going home" for Christmas. Many people spend more time in their offices than they do in their living rooms. There are all kinds of television programs and books on how to make a house a home.

Just what is a home?

I think for me, over the past couple years, I've realized that home is more of a state of mind than a mailing address. Sure, you can create areas in your flat that are full of beautiful things or physical reminders of people you love. Or maybe you're a zen minimalist, and find joy in an abundance of clean, clear surfaces.

But perhaps those physical things and spaces are just reminders of the "home" that's inside each of us ... a soothing blend of comfort, peace, and tranquility that comes from getting to know ourselves.

What's home for you? And how can you take that along where ever you go?

Bob

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