You can go home again, the General Temporal Theory asserts, so long as you understand that home is a place where you have never been.
Home was never a dream for homeless people as they used to have their homes. Living in a home was their reality. Now we need to help them to find the lost-reality again.
She lit wildfires inside my soul and fanned them with hurricanes.
He reminds me of a comfortable sweater that you pull on, knowing it will keep you warm every time.
Each way of being is more valued in the presence of the other. This balance between making camp and following the seasons is both very ancient and very new. We all need both.
No, I stay for myself. Everything I need, everything I want, is here. I know it’s not enough for most people, but it is for me. Every time I leave, even for an afternoon or an overnight trip to Seattle, I can’t wait to get back. This is home. And I guess I’m a person who needs a home, a place to plant seeds and watch them grow.
Ultimately, I hoped the tiny-house guy was similar to me: a sane person without a big agenda, who simply wanted a way to make sense of the world, to create a new map with a big X in the middle labeled “Home,” even if that meant shrinking his world down to the size of an area rug.
When one is traveling, everything looks brighter and lovelier. That does not mean it IS brighter and lovelier; it just means that sweet, kindly home suffers in comparison to tarted-up foreign places with all their jewels on.
I fall in love with Paraíso. It’s like a giant playground where I’m never scolded for running around recklessly, where I’m almost overwhelmed with the amount of attention and love I receive from Mami’s family. In New York, I’m invisible.
I searched everywhere for love.
I knocked on every door
and turned over every stone.
But it was only until I returned home
that I found love
waiting for me.