Today I had my first introduction to Augustine, when I listened to a lecture (out of 12) about him. For a moment I felt I was being transported to that light again, that light, that state of joy, of awe, of wholeness, of eternity, of knowing, of being above me, beyond me, simply me, of home, again. It was just a short moment, and I turned away. I did not have time for home yet. Two nights ago I made up my mind to pack up and go on a journey again, a journey of search, a journey of seeing the world once more and getting a renewed perspective of myself, a journey of adventure and unknown territory and hard work and frustration and failure and suffering and loss and discovery and redemption.

I know what "home" feels like--it's the place I want to be because it's the only place I belong. But I don't want to be home yet. I am not ready. (Why do I never do anything that's good for me?) I know the danger of getting home too easily. Or rather, I know the danger of a false sense of comfort and security and finality and joy, which must be reasoned continually and wearily. Today perhaps I was only having a glimpse of what lies ahead of me on my journey, or just an image of the light and the warmth of the real home. Home is not a place one finds and can stays lazily forever. It seems that home changes as we grow, and therefore we constantly need to find our way back there again. (Maybe that's why even the Pope and the Dalai Lama need a lot of time every day to pray and meditate--they are negotiating a way home too.) For a while, when I sat back "comfortably", thinking I was enjoying being finally at home after the hardest journey imaginable, I was actually wandering aimlessly, away, and losing sight of home. Perhaps home is not the final destination. It is only a direction. It is recognition, a reward. It is a place to refuel, to reconfirm, to remind.

As I am writing this, it occurs to me that Augustine also has similar comment on this (I am definitely paraphrasing from the tiny bit I've heard about him, so forgive me if I am totally wrong): Sin is to love something that makes you unhappy; it's when you wander too far away from home. So it seems to me that I was in love with "home" which made me unhappy, because it was no longer home when I became too attached to the "idea" of home but not the essence.

I want to think about it more, but I really don't have time now. I am traveling tomorrow to Pasadena, to see two of my most loved friends. And I also want to finish the last 100 pages of Sophie's Choice, soon, to learn about my obsession with my previous "home". That home was so good, so glorious, so powerful, so total, so rewarding, but now it has made me dull and low and indifferent. "I have fallen, long and steady, blind and confident, and I am lost", I wrote two days ago. "I am sick of it!" I was ready to say goodbye, but I want to leave first, before I return.

I shall return.