I stare at the honey-colored wood floors beneath my feet. My eyes travel up to the walls, the painted walls of a pleasing forest green. I didn’t paint these walls.

I walk outdoors, bundled up in layers of clothing, making sure to wear gloves and a hat. The gray sky hangs low, clouds swirl. The cold air pierces through to my bones.

I think back to another time, where the air is thick and moist and sunshine abundant. Most days are lined with a blue sky and warmth—not so much heat, but warmth. I found ways to stay cool during the long burning summers.

What if, some years after the burning summers, you find yourself ambling in a frozen winter? What if you realize you’ve been swimming in a dead sea, going nowhere, simply trying to stay afloat, not to drown?

Is there a soft place to lay one’s head, to rest, to sink from an uncertain life?

Is place geography? A person? Where is this gentle refuge and safe haven?

In my life, I’ve come to realize this: it isn’t a place I can see. It isn’t a person I can see. But both of these exist, and are Unseen. I find my home there. There is a Person to whom I belong, and a Place where I belong.




(The piece above was written for a prompt for Five Minute Friday, titled “place”. Photos above are from Pixabay).