Many apologies for my absence – after a long weekend with the in-laws, followed by my second day as a volunteer falconer, I can now say that normal service will be resuming! I’m afraid I haven’t had time to work on The Adventurous Time Adventures, or anything else for that matter, but I should be posting more of that in due time as well.
So onto today’s topic: Where is “home”?
The Husband and I were talking last night about him being an adult yet craving the childhood home. He feels a sense of loss when we get back to our own flat after spending time there. Is it bad that, for all I adore my in-laws, I feel nothing but relief?
I think it all has to do with what “home” is to each person. To The Husband, home is still where his parents and brother are. To me, home is wherever my belongings happen to be residing for the moment. I have a hard time functioning in other spaces.
Don’t get me wrong – that could sound terribly materialistic, and maybe it is. But it’s merely linked to my experiences of constant transatlantic journeying, and how I’ve been forced to reevaluate and reprioritise my life to fit into two suitcases for the past 6 years. So when I begin to settle myself down somewhere, and have unpacked said suitcases, that place is immediately termed “home” in my mind.
This has some consequences. Mainly that I hate to be relocated again once settled. Moving is such a pain, it’s a universal fact, but even just packing an overnight bag can be an ordeal to me. I can always be counted on to forget some random thing that becomes The Most Important Thing Ever and because it’s not with me I get sad. It reminds me, on a smaller scale, of how I have had to leave so much behind whenever I’ve moved countries.
I’ve done that a lot, especially when I was moving back to the US every summer while at university. Because I had to once again fit my life into the two suitcases I’d arrived in, things were inevitably left behind. Some left with flatmates and friends who mostly returned them, and others ultimately thrown out/given to charity shops.
I still have moments when I go, “Oh what happened to that skirt? I loved that skirt, I want to wear it today – Oh crap I gave that away. Damn!” And then I feel ridiculously sad out of all proportion to the issue of a mere skirt.
So home is where my crap is.
But actually, this isn’t entirely it either. We lived at the in-laws for a couple of months before finding our own place, and while it was homey it still wasn’t our home – to me, at least. As a couple, I feel like our home has to be our own space where we can start our own lives. It can’t be shared by any others apart from future pitter-patterings of tiny baby feet. So there’s that aspect of “home” as it pertains to our current phase in life as well.
However, a friend and I have a saying: Home is Where the Boobs Are.
And it’s true. For all that I’ve placed undue importance on my belongings it’s really my self, my person, my thoughts, my boobs, that make me me. And ultimately that’s the mark of home. Home is where you are, with your boobs, and you decide it’s your home.
And my boobs are here right now. This is Home.