A journey to home

Before I had a house in the middle of a naked and dusty patch of land, I didn’t think in plants and bushes. I had lived, previously, in the second floor of a three story complex. Each door and window opened to brown concrete walls; rough and unflinching structures of  multi-residential, multiple floor complexes. These were my definition of ‘view from my room’.

The nakedness of the land, I landed on, its poverty stricken and unkept look, triggered a hunger in me. I was hungry for life, for freedom from suffocating sights of brown  concrete  walls.

I remember spending days, out in the rain, an umbrella in one hand, a garden fork in another, tiling the land, planting and uprooting.

I am on the journey to home.

Home is where all the windows open to a live plant, to something with a semblance of a garden. To some live green and colour.

And until that happens, Home is a journey, a vision.

Gardening was to remain a partner I seek for inspiration; a reminder to be grateful for a piece of land.

I’m tilling the land to home…

And until each window opens into a garden; until we are hidden behind bushes and can pull down and trash our curtains, we can only imagine home. We can only see its shadows.

Tilling the land reminds me that one day, I’ll be home.

At home our curtains are bushes.

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