This is what it means to say, “I’m home.”

How strange it is to feel at home in yourself. In the past, there have been times that I’ve been so struck by this feeling -- to feel alive and complete in the blissful aloneness of the self –- that it makes me light-headed and disoriented. As I’m always on the hunt for adding corniness to my life, I would say that this feeling causes me to stand, with open arms, and say, with a breathy sigh, “This is life.” What is life, really? Serendipitous moments of glee and heartbreak, a weather-beaten journey of loneliness and love and the discovery of peace.

It is awful sometimes, this life. We break and burn and starve our bodies in order to somehow obtain a level of physical satisfaction that someone, somewhere told us was not only obtainable but a necessity. We toil and twist our souls, our minds so that they reflect a perfect balance of decisiveness and open-minded reflection. And for what? So that we can fit in. Find a group of people who make us feel comfortable and safe and not alone. What does it mean to be at home in yourself and then (!) seek out those fellow seekers of the truth that sets men and women free, and of the peace that passes all understanding? What does it mean to say, “I’m home.” to yourself? To the creative spirit that was gloriously made in the sight of the Trinity?

These moments, which I look back on with the same longing I have from never going to sleep-away summer camp, are miss-able. They buzz past you, thisclose, just touching your left ear, like the summer dragonfly. If you listen closely, you can hear the buzz of past happiness, of past comfort, with the scent of home lingering on your shoulders like a freshly-washed beach towel wrapped around the torso. (My home smells like lilacs in mid-May.) Here, after the fall, the miss-ability of “at home” moments is excusable, rather than craved. It is far, far, far too easy to tell yourself that you are lucky to experience the fleeting moments of a fullness of peace. My personal motto is, “Why settle for glass-half-full when you can have free refills?” Indeed. Why must we settle for second-rate happiness? For happenstance and every-once-in-a-while joy?

At what point along the road did we allow ourselves to settle for second-rate living?

This weekend brought forth several moments that are beautiful in their ability to force one to consider this “at-home” notion: Skipping down the street with friend in Pioneer Square, our stomachs full of Krispy Kreme donuts, talking about God and men and hope. The unconditional love of a dog, a pure example, albeit a very small fraction, of God’s love for His Creation. The face of my Mom, gorgeous and rested in her skin, watching me as I drove away from my childhood home. My mom is the ultimate example of what it means to call yourself “home”. To be fully vested in the relationship one has with Abba, Father and the relationship one has with herself. She is a miracle.

I wonder -- at what point during the creation of man did God decide to give us the ability to love? From the minute amount that I know about the Father, I can only imagine He was crying through copious laughter, knowing what He was getting us into. The ability to love – and be loved (not to sound like the dénouement from Moulin Rouge) – isn’t that enough to have us ache, crave first-rate living? To seek innocence (more on this later), joy and freedom? And, love, of course. Love is what started it all. And love is what allows us to feel at home in ourselves. To be comfortable and at peace in the skin, blood and bones that God provided for us.

In such bliss, yet with an absolute knowledge of pain, comes not necessarily a new way of life, but, and perhaps more importantly, a new understanding of the senses and what it means to use them to their full extent.

To you all, summer is the perfect time to read Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. It infuses the power of sight unlike any other piece of prose I have ever read.

Summery, blissful blessings to you, my dear friends.