I sit here writing this in the place of my dreams.


I sit here in a house that was built by the voice of a land that has been calling me ‘home’ since I was six years old.


I sit here crying tears of grace for the ‘tough bliss’ of a long journey, walked well (most of the time anyway…).


I sit here in a beautiful house made of glass, wood and love in the mountains of Colorado; the place of my birth; the place I left over 35 years ago; my heart home that has finally become my body, mind and soul home.

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It seems to me that many of us are in a wistful search for something we call ‘home’. It’s a feeling that’s hard to grasp, the faint notes of a beautiful melody that drifts to us in those moments when our busy lives become still. Perhaps the song of ‘home’ really is a feeling rather than a thing or a place. Or perhaps it is the sense of rootedness that we discover when we align ourselves to who our ancestors are and where they lived – when we locate our heritage and history in their land. Genetics aside, I have spoken with enough people to know that, for each of us, there are places on this beautiful earth that invoke the feeling of safety and security that we associate with the idea of ‘home’. One of these places found me when I was least expecting it. Avebury – the place of the stone people. It is one of the spaces that I now call ‘home’.


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