Virginia Woolf once said we all need a room of our own.
Perhaps not a room but, 
     most definitely, 
          a place—
"where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt,
where thieves do not break through nor steal."
A heaven on earth,
     if you will—
          a revitalizing place to retreat
               when frustration and fatigue 
               close in like hungry vultures,
someplace where there isn't any trouble,
someplace where your heart is nourished,
someplace where your soul is fed,
          someplace that feels like Home.
My place is
     my mother's back porch, at dusk—
          mist nuzzling the brown cows
          in the pasture sprawled green and lush 
     at the foot of a mountain . . .
          tree frogs singing rounds with cicadas,
          their vibrating chorus
     an aural yin and yang account of
          events of the day.
And as the last pink streaks of sky ebb to grey,
     the firefly light show commences—
          yellow polka-dots flashing lazily
          like coy lanterns 
               dancing in the darkening stillness.
Find your retreat, my darling,
     that place of escape and 
          assured restoration
     that will set you free, 
          make you whole,
               take you home.
We mothers worry about so many things—
            are you safe? satisfied?
            are you happy? are you loved?—
but we worry less if we know
     that wherever life leads,
     whatever it brings,
there's a place you call Home
     in your heart.
 
From Dancing with My Daughter (Loyola Press)