What is this thing we call "home?"
When we think about being home — or going home — where exactly is that? Is it even a place?
Earlier today, I was having lunch with a friend and he asked me — after I'd talked a bit about some relatives back in Denmark — whether I "ever go home."
In this case, home was referring to Denmark... although I don't actually live in Denmark, anymore. In fact, I haven't lived there permanently since the 1980s. That said, I do still have a Danish passport.
Home — in most senses of the word — is now here in the US Pacific Northwest. Home is also a somewhat messy and sprawling property where we live.
When I consider the idea of "home," I find that I can't do so without considering the deeper question of what feels like home.
Quite a few years ago — not long after my mother passed away — I found myself back in the part of southern Spain where I spent my teenage years.
I was there — after a long absence — to sort through my mother's things and get some sense of closure, knowing that it was unlikely that I would ever visit that part of the world again.
In between packing boxes, organizing and donating things to charity I found myself looking for something else... a feeling of sorts, that seemed conspicuous by its absence. I couldn't actually identify it, I just knew that something was not there.
I went to many of the places where I had been when I was in high school; back past the house where we lived when I was 13... looking for something; looking for that closure, and perhaps chasing memories.
Even though I was actually there, the feeling-experience was more like that of looking at a photograph, and remembering. The places themselves felt strangely flat, and almost faded and empty.
I ended up leaving that part of the world — and I have not been back — with nothing but a strange emptiness inside me.
Some years passed before I recognized that "time traveling" — in the revisiting memories sense of the concept — doesn't actually work because even though the places we return to may seem unchanged, the person viewing them is not the same as they were, in the original context.
The places I visited were definitely the same, but I had changed and no longer saw them through the eyes of a lost and depressed 15-year old.
So what does this anecdote have to do with "home?"
The older I get the more it seems like home is not a place, at all, it is actually a state of mind... and it may even be a person or personS whose company bring a sense of deeper meaning and belonging to our existence.
Home is where and when we feel most like we are part of life and all that is.
At least for me...
Thanks for stopping by and have a great week ahead!
How about you? What is "home," to you? Is it a place, a feeling, something else? Leave a comment if you feel so inclined — share your experiences — be part of the conversation!
(All text and images by the author, unless otherwise credited. This is ORIGINAL CONTENT, created expressly for this platform — Not posted elsewhere!)
Created at 2024.10.28 01:45 PDT
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