Cliches are cliches for a reason - they contain a kernel (and sometimes only a kernel) of what we know to be true.
But sometimes they are all truth and all wrong...all at once. Like, you can't go home again. Because, well...you can't. Not really. But, then again - there's no place like home. Just ask Dorothy.
She was right. There is absolutely no place like home. As I stepped out of the airport in Texas, the humidity settled its weight on my shoulders and a trickle of sweat ran down my neck. Immediately. The green of the pines and oaks was intense, and hay bales dotted the landscape. The highway was bustling with trailers, tractors, eighteen wheelers, and trucks. And when we stopped for supper, the restaurant actually served sweet tea. We got to mom and dad's close to bedtime. The kids stayed up late. I unpacked. We were home.
It felt like slipping on your oldest, most comfortable set of slippers. The ones that are so old they shouldn't be comfortable anymore - but are the only set you have that truly are. The ones that are so fitted to you that every new pair feels alien.
Home is like that. Nothing has ever fit quite as well as home - the place where I became.
But there's truth, too, in saying you can't go home. Not fully. Or completely.
Every new place and experience has changed me. As comfortable as home is, and as familiar as it is to every sense I possess, I know that I am different.
Somewhere along the way I learned who and what I am, flaws and all. I learned to see my beauty and my strength. To accept life's trials but never let myself be defeated by them. I learned to be myself.
Home, in some ways, is for the child in me. For a more childish version of myself. The people and the places there belong to a different me. And after a while, that chafes a little.
So perhaps those two should be combined.
There's no place like home, where you can go and rest for a little while.