Leave your boots at the door ’cause there’s no place like home

Out of nowhere, long forgotten thoughts, feelings, and behaviors can come to call. Though at times upsetting, it presents an opportunity to reexperience ourselves, as well as appraise growth. Here’s what happened…

Not long ago I was reading some of my older poetry and articles. Within two minutes I came upon a poem that emotionally consumed me.

I’ll share it with you…

Somewhere

Will there be
A stop
For me

The place where I
Depart

Will I yet hear
Home
Echo down the aisle
And gather my bags
Acting so proud
To belong

Night
To Day
Rain
To shine

Where
Is a someplace

I can call
Mine

Will there be
That stop
For me

The place where I

Depart

Emotional homelessness

I read the piece numerous times and with each repetition I became all the more choked up. I mean, it was sad – it hurt. And that wasn’t the only piece that moved me.

I don’t know why, but on that particular day I was drawn to poems with the same theme – this long-standing pathological need for constant motion – belongings often in tow.

Now that I think about it, the number of pieces I’d written addressing the dilemma is telling.

Anyway, feeling as though I have no place to lay my head and rest is really a matter of choice – conscious, unconscious, or both. We’ll call it emotional homelessness. And I have to tell you, I still feel it on occasion.

Have you experienced it? Maybe right now?

Gotta’ keep movin’

Is it any wonder that someone enduring a mood or anxiety disorder would learn to keep moving?

Now, we may think constant motion is purely a product of an unsettled mind. But if we cut to the core, it’s really a matter of safety, isn’t it?

If you ask me, there’s no greater priority for those of us enduring a mood or anxiety disorder. And we can stay pretty doggone safe when we’re on the run.

Fact: it’s always harder to hit a moving target.

Ease those boots off

Many of us have yet to arrive at that “someplace I can call mine” mentioned in the poem. That means we’re likely still doing our best pinball imitation.

And if you think about it, without some sort of intervention we could end up with a pathological need for constant motion for the rest of our lives.

That’s why it’s crucial to create, and stay focused upon, detailed mental images of what it will look like when we come to our stop, that place where we depart – home.

And you know what? Maybe it ends up being a bricks and mortar arrangement. But I’m inclined to believe it would be extra meaningful if we found our abode deep within our soul. That’s the home no one can take away.

Appraising growth

Okay, in the opening I mentioned when long-forgotten thoughts, feelings, and behaviors come to call it presents an opportunity to reexperience ourselves and appraise growth.

I did both when I repeatedly read “Somewhere” and wrote this piece.

I found out that I can survive reexperiencing myself. Really, I was fine with the power of my deep and troubling feelings. And I was pleased with how I expressed them. In fact, I didn’t change a word of the poem.

Growth? There’s been a lot of it. Okay, the feelings shared in the piece haven’t really changed; however, I experience them less frequently. But what pleases me the most is I interpret and respond to them in a much more mature and healthy manner.

Would you be willing to give an exercise like this a go? Just find something you created at least five years ago and see how your thoughts and feelings at the time line up with the present.

The place where we depart

In 1823, Sir Henry Bishop and John Howard Payne wrote the beautifully simple song, “Home, Sweet Home.” Included in its lyrics…

Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home.

I think it’s time to gather our bags and act so proud to belong. It’s our stop – the place where we depart.

As long as we’re talking about feelings and motion, you may enjoy The motion of emotion: Leonardo knew it well.

Would you like to read more Chipur mood and anxiety disorder info and inspiration articles? All you have to do is check out the titles.