After a morning of quick errands by foot, I returned home to rest for a few moments on our couch. Besides the sounds of ambulance sirens peeling down the street, and the telltale sound of summer (drilling and construction), I heard the strongest sound of all in the mix which was incongruous with the others: the organic sound of birds moving about, tweeting, and tapping next to my living room window. Then it occurred to me how interesting it was that this family, I assume, (or “framily” – who knows) of birds decided to take up residence in a city rather than in a lush green forest somewhere along the highway 15. What made them urban dwellers? Was it circumstance, or preference, or dwellings just don’t matter much to a sparrow? I can’t imagine a crevice in a brick building as a particularly hospitable environment to choose, but then again, I’m definitely not a sparrow.
The surprise with which I considered the birds’ residence next to my living room window caused me to reflect upon my own seeking for a home. I often wonder why I’ve chosen for one reason or the other to put down some shallow roots in Boston, of all places. It was some mixture of familiarity, friends, and circumstance, I suppose. But why remain in a city, plagued with congestion and noise but blessed with convenience and variety?
I’m not certain of the answer, but I’m here for now. When I’m away, as I have been the past two weekends, I do miss home. Yet, is it because I’ve made the best of what I have and can, in essence, make a home anywhere with time? Or, is where I am actually home? What does home mean? The old adage “home is where the heart is” seems either too simple a quip, or too broad. Who can know the depths of one’s own heart?
So, dear readers, I’ll ask you: What makes a home a home?
I hope to see some comments and see what you all think!