They crouched down on the snow-white ground and peered into someone’s home. My little boys wondering what tiny, fury animal makes his way in and out of this hole each and every day. The place spiders, squirrels, insects and chipmunks shield themselves from cold winter nights and hot summer days. In the tree’s crevice these little critters hide from stronger beasts. The place they call home.
I often think about the boys and where we live. The place we leave from and return each day. The place I call home. The place where I have watched them take their first steps, eat their first foods, ride their bikes without training wheels and make off from, onto a school bus. The place where we planted trees and watch our wild flowers grow. The place where we run through sprinklers and chase fireflies at night. This place we call home.
Yet, these are moments that define our home. The moments can travel with us to any place we set up our temporary camp. We cannot define our love for each other by the brick and mortar that surrounds us every night. Real home is living in the moment and building experiences. Home is where the heart is and it does not stop when encased by a layer of wood, brick or glass. Home is not a place, but a moment.
For the protection of the tree only shields and contains us, it doesn’t define us.