If there is any underlying theme in my incoherent pieces of writing, it is my search for a home. It is one messy search, I tell you. Of all the places that I have tried to make home, I was never at home as I was in the last place I lived in Hawaii. It was also the smallest.
What you see in this picture is all the furniture that I had. I don’t have any of them now. The cross is given to my dear friend along with the nightstand underneath. The bed is actually two dog beds I purchased at Costco put together. It was the creation of my gypsy mind. They are now comfy beds for my other friend’s dog, Spot.
That chakra chart is gone. I am no longer into chakra therapy. The stuffed blue bear got really old so I left it in Hawaii somewhere.
The green yoga mat in the corner is in Tennessee. Right now, I am using a yellow yoga mat that I left here at my sister’s house years ago. I just cannot separate myself from yoga, so I still do it regularly. However, I am not all OCD about it and do it like a ritual at the same time, to the same music, as I always have done for a long time.
This was the neat part of my studio. On the other side, near the front entrance, there was my road bike and all my paddling and cycling gears. I had my writing desk which is always messy with piles of books and notes and post-its everywhere on the wall. Then up a few steps is the kitchen and a small corner table and just one chair.
I sat on that single chair every morning alone and drank coffee. I ate alone. Sometimes, I drank alone, too, but that was the ex-alcoholic in me reappearing every once in a while. I did quit alcohol in the end.
I don’t know how many days I laid there on that dog bed like a dying dog. Panting from panic attacks, sobbing from depression, frustrated because I can’t sleep, sometimes I laid there motionlessly with vacant expression on my face reflecting my vacant mind and heart. But when I was not sick, and my spirit dwelled there inside of me, I was fully present. I was home. This was my home.
It didn’t surprised me when my therapist told me that I have an orphan spirit during our christian counseling session. “I can sense deep sadness, sense of abandonment, and an orphan spirit. Those are the things that make you suffer.” I was not surprised because I already knew. I knew what pain I was feeling, and I knew their names. I just did not know how to deal with them. I guess desperately searching for a place that I can call ‘home’, where I can lay down my heart, was my solution. I searched and searched and searched. I have never, ever stopped searching.
Purpose driven life was far from my agenda.
Success was not my driving force.
All I ever wanted was home.
Not just any home, but a place where I can freely be who I am, where I am not criticized, where I can express myself, and where I am loved purely with all pure intentions.
I wanted that home. That’s the only home I know. Anything less won’t qualify.
I spent my young days striving for that home of mine. When other children were tending their garden of goals and achievements, their future success, I spent all my energy along with my longing heart grieving and moaning for home. I wanted home. A safe place. A happy place. A place designated for love.
What I did not know all that time was that I already had that home. From the moment I was born, from the moment I was conceived, I was home. The moment God thought of having me, I was home. The moment I thought of God, I was home. I moment Jesus died for my sins, I was home. So with that lesson learned, I ditched my dreamy Hawaiian paradise home and became homeless.
I have never been happier.
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I think the less we have, the more we can focus on Jesus. He really is all we need, the rest of the “stuff” just gets in the way.
He’s all we need!