I walked home beneath a spreading cloud of storm black, sunset crimson. And I realised, in the darkening, as I grew colder and felt the first drops of rain, that I was infact already home : there within the edge of the wild wintry sky, the edge of night.
Home is not a place, although a place may contain it. Home is a spirit.
And so I can be home in a certain season, a certain time of day. I can be home in the clothes I wear, the books I read, the length of my hair, the food in my pantry. I can find home in a conversation, a blog post, a half-remembered song.
Home is deeper than soil, more real than mountains and trees.
Today's image was processed using Kim Klassen textures.