A few years ago, Bon Jovi and Richie Sambora defiantly asked "Who Says You Can't Go Home?" and their lyrics make the point that where you were raised stays with you, no matter where you go.
More recently, Miranda Lambert's plaintive, poignant lyrics in "The House that Built Me" speaks to a longing to be grounded by our memories of home:
So I guess the answer to this question depends on whether you consider home a time or a place, and how far removed you are- not the physical distance, but the effect of time on our emotional connections.
"You leave home, you move on, and you do the best you can.
I got lost in this old world and forgot who I am.
I thought if I could touch this place, or feel it.
The brokenness inside me might start healing.
Out here it's like I'm someone else,
I thought that maybe I could find myself..."
For those who never left their hometown, this question probably makes little sense; for them, home is where and what it's always been. But for those of us who left the place where we grew up, we know the answer is complex and difficult to explain in words. You can return, but you can't turn back the hands of time. You can go home, but it isn't the same place. You're not the same person.
This weekend, I visited the town where I spent my early years. I have been in the area since we moved, but I've never made a special trip on my own, until now.
|My old school|
The local campground was full of migrating Canadian geese enjoying the spring-fed ponds on their annual trek.
Our old farmhouse hadn't changed much since I last saw it, but the driveway seems much shorter than I remember it as a kid on my bike, and the lilac bushes are much bigger than they were back when.
|Late afternoon sunset in Kansas|