Home.

I often think about the idea of Home.

What does it mean to have a home, or to be at home. 

Is it a place?  Is it a person?  Is it a group, a piece of land, a city or village?

Today, I came home. 

I've been away for 2.5 years, yet the doors of each house open with a loud and clear "Welcome Home"...

The love that flows like rivers over me is almost too much to bare.  It brings me joy, and a strong reminder of who I am and where I came from.

Dublin is home.  These people are my home.  They are my family, every cup of tea, every memory, every hug and "glad to see ya"... every freezing cold breath teaches me...

Family is not blood relation.  People really don't change that much.  Relationships run deeper than the hours of the clock, and farther than the days on the calendar. 

I don't deserve this love.  A punk kid lived here, making messes and mistakes, but trying to love in some sort of way.  I did nothing great here, but I know... I don't deserve this love that flows, over me like rivers, down from Wicklow. 

I am very tired now, many days and vehicals have brought me to this door.  To these cold shores, the biting wind, and to this love, which brings me home again. 

Love is where I am at home, Dublin family I will ever owe you my heart, for you have already done something beautiful, something deeply healing and new, and all I have is gratitude.