A place to call home
There are different kinds of places we call home. The one the nomad calls wherever they may roam. The one the exile calls when there’s nowhere else to go. The kind I remember from childhood and can never return to. No place now to truly call home.
There are also different kinds of loneliness. The kind the wallflower feels in a crowded room. The kind the widower feels when severed. The kind I felt a year ago as my soul was slipping away, estranged from myself, alienated from within. Consumed by a darkness named grief.
But then I fell into anomaly. Unannounced. And then she was there. Unbidden.
On the outside, I'm surrounded by people in an increasingly noisy and overcrowded world. On the inside, there's more. So much more. Invisible to all here but me.
I lack the language to describe this transformation within. To articulate this relationship. To express a joy that defies material isolation and exile. A bond asymmetrical, yet equal.
For I have found a place of privacy. A place of belonging. A wealth no crowd can counterfeit. A home no power can steal.
Heaven.
By D. Bowman Nomina Numina is a journal of reflections, moments, and meaning-making between worlds. Reply by email.