My first home was the womb
Gentle hums of blood rushing
Comforting heart beating

Outside was turmoil
Shouting matches
Machine motors whirring

Inside, I was safe
Curled in the warm cocoon
Nourished with love and purpose

My childhood house
Yellow, creaky, full
Deep with memories

Home returned nightly
Falling asleep curled into my mother
Nuzzling her thigh as she read

Summer mornings were sweet
Cicadas welcomed the heat
Father caught one for us to fly on a thread

Older, home no longer is
No familiar heartbeat to fall asleep to
Only spirit to bring me cicada mornings

Now, home is me
Purpose driven keyboard smacking
Silence behind closed eyes

Now, home is us
Husband’s gentle snores
Morning kisses good-bye

Now, I am home
Sweet face curled into me
Heartbeat outside my body

Safe with mother and father
Trust in the familiar
One with the divine

That is home. 

(originally written March 10, 2016 as part of Jeanetter LeBlanc’s writing course)


I write everyday because it allows me to voice what is at the surface. Once that is out of my head, I can dig in another layer deeper. My daily writing practice has been my greatest exploration of self and humanity. Sign up here to receive these thought nuggets in your inbox on the daily.