The House Of Belonging

Just an ordinary house on an ordinary street, nothing remarkable whatsoever about it. But it's the house I grew up in and where Mum still lives. And walking back across the park this morning, and seeing the early morning mist still hanging over it, and the trees behind it in their autumn colours, I realised that I still think of this as home, even though I no longer live here.

It brought to mind a poem by David Whyte that I've come to enjoy more and more, since I came across it about a year ago, called The House Of Belonging, which concludes:
There is no house
like the house of belonging.