Home always seems to be more meaningful and more of an attraction at this time of the year. I can remember many conversations that I had with people at this time of the year. They were made special because either I was the one reminiscing or they were. No matter what or who the source was, the sentiments were pretty much the same. They revolved around parents, relatives, food, activities at home, in the community, the neighborhood and in the homes of close relatives and of course, church. I had these conversations with people from different corners of the globe. [I know, globes don't have corners.] Just to show you that this one does, I remember exchanging nostalgic moments about the Holidays with Brazilians, Italians, French, Spaniards, English, Australians, Africans, South Americans, Pacific Islanders and Asiatics. The stories were all slightly different, but essentially the same. I assure you that home is home in any language you speak and from whatever heart the story is springing. It doesn't matter if it is an igloo, a cave, a bamboo shack, an inner city attic or a mansion with golden door knobs and five-inch thick carpets all over the place. I assure you that the kid who grows up in the Basque country of the Pyrenees has memories that are every bit as powerful as as the Gaucho of Argentina or the squid hunter in Micronesia. This is the season when the human race finds its unity. The mystery is that it comes to this realization because this the season when the disparity and the inequality in the world are the most evident. The paradox of it all is that in the great divisions we discover the essential unity of who we are. it is at this time of the year when we discover life despite the presence of death. We discover health in helping those who are too sick to help themselves. We discover wealth in the penury that surrounds us. We discover maturity in the child, despite the childishness of the adults around that very child. This is the time of year when we become aware that home is the place of redemption.
In conclusion, I have to say that for many years now, many years, I have rarely had joy of being home for the holidays. Yesterday, Sunday, I heard the missionary priest say that all he wanted for Christmas was something that he could not have . Home. I know where he comes from. It's not much, but to him it is home. The second part of my thought when he said that, was, "In California, especially in Southern California, most of us have "HOMES" that are but memories. " We have homes here too. Our children are home here. But for most of us, Home with the capital "Haich" is somewhere else, and always will be.
If you have time, you can get some of my spiritual reflection here, if you haven't already been there by clicking on the link above. In the meantime, peace and joy to you all.
I cried over this on what that priest commented. I did not hear it but taking it from your expression, I just could not help the tears falling. I suppose I feel the lonengliness of priests. No where to really call home. I have gone home over the years and none of the part of the places I grew up in is the same. Population and developements and migrations of other nations seem to have obliterated the familiar
ReplyDeleteplaces. The nooks I used to go by the house on a hill looking over the ocean and wondering at the mysteries of the cosmos and life and will I ever get out of this island. At 9 years of age I saw my mom deep in wetland swamp taro patch deep
to her waist planting taro. I thought to myself and almost swore that w as not going to be my future. It was'nt. I guess we mimick the real home we are longing for.
The real home in heaven. Forwarding to journalist back in the island.
Justa