home

I breathe in... The sights and smells Of this city I__e come to know... So well I gaze... Across the turquoise ocean Where the waves Liberate my spirit... From its shell I breathe in... The brilliant sky line Where the birds Emerge shyly From the dappled sunshine I breathe in... The gently... Blowing winds That soothe me Like a mother, around her child I breathe in... The sounds of laughter Pure and pretty Like the golden-green butterfly I__ always after I breathe in... The closeness, I have always shared With people, Who almost knew me, Almost cared I breathe in... The comfort Of my home, The safe walls, The scents of childhood On the pillows I breathe in...the silence Of my own heart Aching with tenderness... With memories.. Of home I breathe... in... The fragrance Of love, and moist sand The one... His roses left... On both my hands And I just keep on breathing Every moment As much as I can Preserving it, in my body For the day It can__ So I breathe in.. Once again.. Feeling life's energy Fizzing through my cells Never knowing What awaits me Or what's going to happen to me.. Next I breathe in This moment... Knowing it's either life Or it's death I close my eyes, And breathe in Just believing in myself.

But the shock wears off, more quickly for some, but eventually for most. Fast food and alcohol are seductive, and I didn__ fight too hard. Your old routine is easy to fall back into, preferences and tastes return. It__ not hard to be a fussy, overstuffed American. After a couple of months, home is no longer foreign, and you are free to resume your old life. I thought I did. Resume my old life, that is. I was wrong.

My wife is alone in our full bed too. Her husband, the father of her children, never came back from Iraq. When I deployed the first time she asked her grandmother for advice. Her grandfather served in Africa and Europe in World War II. Her grandmother would know what to do.__ow do I live with him being gone? How do I help him when he comes home?_ my wife asked. __e won__ come home,_ her grandmother answered. __he war will kill him one way or the other. I hope for you that he dies while he is there. Otherwise the war will kill him at home. With you._ My wife__ grandfather died of a heart attack on the living-room floor, long before she was born. It took a decade or two for World War II to kill him. When would my war kill me?

Let your love be the kindness to make a homeless person believe that a soul needs something more than just four walls and a ceiling.

Gym is a sacred place which makes your life feel worth existing by putting effort of care into the home of your soul called body!

We always become weaker when our soul gets into a stronger desire to own another. Like the way, our knees gets weaker when we see into their eyes. And the way, our hearts and minds defy every law of gravity and make us feel light and float into the infinity. The way, our soul bonds to theirs and becomes stronger. The way, their touch feels like thousands of stars bombarding together ripping us out of our senses and reality. Filling every void inside us, and how everything seems so right. Like a dream, that we never want to end. Like a dream, where we want to be lost forever and never want to find our way back home.

The home of every soul is not among another's glory, but should be within another's soul.

He looked into her eyes and said "When everything falls apart, and the day my soul refuses to move any further, I'll come back home. A home that fills me with courage and love. My home neither has doors and nor windows, All it have is walls. The walls that beat every second. And it has a pair of eyes too. Through which I can see this world more beautifully than I ever did".

I gradually became aware that my interiority was inseparable from my exteriority, that the geography of my city was the geography of my soul.

Christ asks for a home in your soul, where he can be at rest with you, where he can talk easily to you, where you and he, alone together, can laugh and be silent and be delighted with one another.

Her mind circled Georgia, circled Ebenezer. It called up images and memories and things nearly home but never that final destination itself, as if it existed at the center of her mind, shining like a sun too radiant. She knew there was a face at the center of that radiance. A face too bright. A face she sought and longed for but could no longer bear the light of. She drifted into sleep, circling, circling, circling.

Philosophy is really nostalgia, the desire to be at home.

An anchorite__ hermitage is called an anchor-hold; some anchor-holds were simple sheds clamped to the side of a church like a barnacle to a rock. I think of this house clamped to the side of Tinker Creek as an anchor-hold. It holds me at anchor to the rock bottom of the creek itself and keeps me steadied in the current, as a sea anchor does, facing the stream of light pouring down. It__ a good place to live; there__ a lot to think about. The creeks are an active mystery, fresh every minute. Theirs is the mystery of the continuous creation and all that providence implies: the uncertainty of vision, the horror of the fixed, the dissolution of the present, the intricacy of beauty, the pressure of fecundity, the elusiveness of the free, and the flawed nature of perfection. The mountains are a passive mystery, the oldest of them all. Theirs is the simple mystery of creation from nothing, of matter itself, anything at all, the given. Mountains are giant, restful, absorbent. You can heave your spirit into a mountain and the mountain will keep it, folded, and not throw it back as some creeks will. The creeks are the world with all its stimulus and beauty; I live there. But the mountains are home.

These times of war and ruin will pass, and by love, you will be renewed and all terrible things shall be undone. Do you hear me, Fin Button?_ Jeannot pushed the hair from her face and though shaking yet, Fin nodded. __n the name of God I drew you from the water, and in his name shall you be delivered home.

We often seek beauty in the outside, in the unknown, and often lack to realize the sheer beauty right in front of our very eyes, back home.

Whatever we have in the glory of man is "away". Those are just not enough before we go "home" to the glory of God.

Moments later, I was climbing nervously into the back of the car. The driver wore the archetypal expression of an antagonist. No words were exchanged beyond the brief lines uttered to this nameless stranger, whose inclinations remained unclear. The car sped along empty roads and traversed dingy alleyways. Music blared from its speakers. I did not remember exhaling throughout the entire journey.

Perhaps home is not a place but simply an irrevocable condition.