Ｉｔ’ｓ Ｎｏｔ Ｗｈｅｒｅ Ｙｏｕ Ｌｉｖｅ， ｂｕｔ Ｗｈｅｒｅ Ｙｏｕｒ Ｈｅａｒｔ Ｉｓ 心靈的家園

I have never met the older Scottish couple walking toward me on the cobbledstreet--yet I feel as though I have known them forever.A facial tissue peeks from one sleeve of the woman's cardigan， and the manwears a tweed jacket and tartan tie. His arm links with his wife's， and as theyapproach， he glances at me. I send them a silent salutation.

The couple's ruddy faces and pragmatic strides remind me of my father'scollection of sepia photographs of our forebears， who emigrated from Scotlandto North America.

I am spending a week in my ancestral home of Stifling， a city in the heart ofScotland built around a castle that has guarded the Highlands for centuries.

Even though I have never lived here， I consider it my consummate6 home.

Two hundred years ago， my great-great-great grandfather， a farmer namedGeorge Moir， asked a bonny lass named Jane Stirling to marry him. Ever since，the name Stifling has been passed down in my family. It was my father'smiddle name， it's mine， and it's my son's.

As a boy， I remember staring mesmerized at my father's pictures of StirlingCastle. The castle crowns a volcanic butte that towers over the neighboringcountryside? Some of its stone walls stand just a few feet from striated cliffsthat plunge to the plain below?~

I have always thought of Stifling Castle as an enduring link to my past. Forme， it is what the Scots might call a bield a shelter or refuge. It is the home ofmy heart.

On the last day of my visit， I'm having lunch at a small bakery when I see theScottish couple again. I smile at them as they pass my table.

The man asks if I'm visiting， and I tell them that I'm from California. As we chat，they recount how they have recently moved from Aberdeen to Stirling.

\"A lifetime ago， we attended high school together here in Stirling，\" the mansays. \"And we liked one another--a lot. But after graduation， we went our separateways and married other people. A few years ago， each of us lost our spouse. Oneday， we both happened to go shopping in the same Aberdeen grocery store， and werecognized each other.\"

\"It's amazing，\" the woman says， \"the timeless connection you have with a firstlove. We hadn't seen each other in 47 years， and after a cup of coffee it was as if wehad always been together. We were married six months later. And we decided tocome back home to Stirling.\"

\"What brings you here?\" the man asks me.

\"I have also come home.\"

As I tell them about my ancestors who lived here， I pull a scrap of paper frommy wallet with a few lines from a poem by my favorite Scottish writer， Robert LouisStevenson. I found the poem on my first visit to Stirling 20 years ago. The wordsjumped off the page at me， almost as if Stevenson had written them for me:

It's ill to loose the bonds that God decreed to bind. Still， we will be children of theheather and the wind. Far away from home， 0 it's still for you and me， That the broom isblowing bonny in the north countries.

\"A true home is like a first love，\" the woman says. \"It's powerful. It pulls you.\"

The man's eyes twinkle. \"And this time of year， you'll haveno trouble seeing Scotch broom.\"

We bid farewell， and one last time I ascend to Stirling Castlealong a narrow street flanked by stone buildings， As I approachthe castle entrance， subdued sunlight illuminates its mightywalls.

A sightseeing bus arrives， and a group of Scottish touristsemerges. Many of them bear a resemblance to the couple I talkedwith earlier. Some of these visitors hold hands as they walktoward the castle over wet grass steaming in the sun.

The day is clear， and we can see almost all the way across thegreen hills of Scotland. Clusters of yellow Scotch broom ripple inthe breeze. We traverse the castle's stone bridge and passthrough its secure wooden gates.

I am home.