What is Home?
As I contemplate yet another move (the sixth summer in a row), I’m forced to consider how I move myself without disrupting my sense of home and well-being. I am somewhat nomadic with my annual transitions, yet permanent enough to establish myself in any given place. What is home, exactly?
I have often said that ‘home’ is where you can find the light switches in the dark. It’s the transition your brain makes when this type of memorization is deemed worthwhile, useful information as you accept a state of permanence.
Home is also where I make tea. Where I sit up quietly with my laptop in the dark after hours with the dog pressed up close against me and cats snoring in the distance. Home is where I can readily find a favourite mug and look up to see a familar piece of artwork. Home is where I can find the right screwdriver in a certain drawer or knowingly locate the perfect kitchen gadget for a task. Home is knowing how garbage and recycling works. Honestly, it doesn’t take much.
These are the centred aspects of home. The touchpoints. Hobbies make it a bit more complicated, but they’re just tools and supplies — a bicycle, sewing machine, empty planters and a box of knitting supplies. Never leave your hobbies behind, they will connect you to your soul.
I know some people are deeply rooted in place. For whatever reason, I don’t seem to be. Home is important to me, but not from a geographic perspective. I can find the pros and cons of most places, and certainly enough beauty to sustain me. I learned this when I moved to Manitoba and fell in love with prairies. Being born near mountains (West Coast), I never found the prairie enticing. Yet, I would enjoy my treks through rural roads watching the fields turn from sunflowers, to snow, to cornfields to canola with each passing mile or season. I learned it again when I moved to Florida, which (oddly) reminded me of the prairies with it’s miles of flat, rural land and dotted lakes.
Home is home. Even in climatic extremes, my actual domiciles remained somewhat consistent. I enjoyed the same artwork, the same cats. I sat on couches with the same favourite mug balanced on my knee with luke-warm Tetley tea. I sewed on the same sewing machines. I cursed the same unfinished knitting projects. I wore the same Birkenstocks, only in different seasons.
Home comes with a sense of grounding, a sort of feeling near the sternum where your breath finds its rythym. It’s a feeling of physical safety and emotional security, where you can be you. It’s where you know the sounds of your environment well enough — the click of an A/C or furnace — and find security in the locks to the outer world.
I suppose I’m lucky to find home in so many places. If it is a short visit, my suitcase has the essentials. If it is for an extended stay, all of the above apply. I learn to let go of walls, of buildings, gently releasing memories and thanking them for being part of the journey. I know what matters. Not stuff, but pieces of me that give warmth, meaning and stablity to each new adventure.
