Old sweatpants, a hoodie, and bare feet. I’m shuffling around my apartment on a Saturday morning, organizing my thoughts and sifting through my feelings. I love it here. The smell of my favorite candles lingers in the air. There is a blanket my grandma crocheted draped on the couch. My sweet bird hangs out in her corner, singing greetings at me from the top of her perch. Two little dachshunds vie for attention at my feet, looking for breakfast, eyes shining and tails wagging. There is adventure in store for us, they just know it. 

   I love my home. And by home, I mean the place where I am. The things I have are simply projections. They are not my home. The roof and walls surround my home defining its boundaries are not my home. Colors, smells, do-dads, books, I love them. They are a piece of my home. They are in my geographical space, but not my home. The physical I call me is not my home. These are the shelters where my home exists. 

   My soul is my home, and the safety that lies within is the thing I love the most. It’s Me I will take when this physical body I now call home is at rest. It’s the residence of my consciousness, a repository of all I know and feel. My soul is the place that feels the minutia of being and responds with connective energy. There is a tension which flows, creating a steady but fluid joining all the energy in the universe. That which we perceive and have yet to perceive. 

   I searched for a long time. I was looking for safety, longing for the sensation. Hoping for the peace I thought it would bring. I would find it in pockets and patches. It would come and go. Safety would manifest as a friend or a book. Perhaps a hobby or place. I would long for those things. I would look for acceptance and affirmation in people. None of those efforts bore the fruit of lasting safety. I would retreat inward each time a person violated my space. I was physically attacked, bruised and broken. There were times I was emotionally devastated. There was the illusion of danger everywhere. I allowed people I loved to take my safety by placing their needs and ideals above my own. There is no safety satisfying the needs of another. Finding safety in the validation of another is not a safe bet. 

   I looked for safety in anchors. Anchors to jobs, to people and places. I anchored to routines dutifully following every construct of my day. Each routine had responsibilities, a reason to be consistent and reliable. This search was no more successful than any other. Somewhat depressed and anxious, I would once again retreat into myself. 

  There are patterns to all things, including behavior. Early in my life, I longed for the acceptance that was withheld, unless I was perfect. Of course, I wasn’t perfect. I thought that there would be safety in that acceptance. In a lifetime of searching, that safety couldn’t be found. Not because it holds no truth, but because the path to that safety was a never-ending loop of failure. The only one person could change the path I was on that was me.  

  Changing my path and priorities is difficult. Releasing anchors and setting sail, looking for myself is frightening, the very opposite of being safe. Or is it? It wasn’t until I let go of the past and moved toward opportunity that I found inside me the thing I love and value most of all. I call it SAFETY.