One of my very first blog posts was quoting Moby from the liner notes to his album Hotel. I think I have a little more to add now.
I’ve now lived in a hotel for a little over three weeks. This has been really challenging, but I find it hard to explain. I mean, it’s hard to complain about a place that has an indoor pool and hot tub. You can make waffles for breakfast, which is nifty. Every day, someone comes through and replaces all our towels and makes the bed. It’s like magic.
But it’s not home, and each day is full of subtle reminders that we are not at home. The kitchen isn’t big enough. The children don’t have enough space to run around. We don’t have enough dishes and pots and pans. And…I don’t know. Everything just feels harder.
And it’s not home.
We’ve been so busy that there isn’t time to think, which has probably been a gift. When I have too much of a pause, the reality of what’s going on in my life comes crashing in on me.
But what about the hot tub? The pool? The waffles? Aren’t these things good and enjoyable?
Sure they are. But I’d give them up in a heartbeat to be home.
This world…this world is like a hotel. There are lots of good things here to enjoy, and it’s certainly not wrong to enjoy them.
But it’s not home.