Home is where?..

So recently, I went home. These days though, I find that concept a bit abstract. I have a home- one that I grew up in with my family; a place where my developing height was recorded on the laundry door frame, where a photo of me at my senior formal rests on the sideboard; where I helped to nurse my dying father and where the laughter of his grandchild now echoes. Though it’s changed a bit since I was there – it’s as much a part of me as a traditional home can get.

And yet.. I have another home. One that I bought with my ex-partner. The furniture that’s there was stuff we chose together. My books and photos are still there, along with most of my other “stuff”. The walls are painted in colours that my partner chose and applied the weekend I cheated on her and blew it all to bits. I own it and it feels like mine, but I don’t think I deserve to call it home. And when I’m there alone I like the feel of my things around me but it occasionally reminds me of the pain I’ve caused – so I slip away, and away, and away.

I rent a place back in Brisbane. A place I shared with my sister and her daughter. I really wanted to make it home, but it never really was. I love its high ceilings, its wooden floors and its huge verandah – but there’s too much disappointment there; it hangs off the walls where paintings should be. Everyone wanted a new start there but it seemed to be the place we fell back into old habits. It’s just a big wooden storage facility now- and soon it will house about a thousand students and the air will be thick with Patuli and Neroli. To them it might be home; I really hope it is.

And then there’s this place here- in the Pacific. A home away from home. A place I feel content and settled and happy.. but more or less alone. And that’s ok I guess because maybe in the end we’re all just our own homes; we spend our lives trying to find and physically create a place outside ourselves that matches the place inside – and then we get attached to all that stuff when all along, the most important things still always lie within.

And i’d like to think that’s true because it will mean that having had this time of communing with my self – and actually really enjoying it- I’ll be able to make home anywhere. I won’t have to drive from one side of the city to the other to find it and I won’t have to drag my “stuff” around with me. It’ll truly be wherever I lay my hat. Although, I suspect that much as I love that idea, we all need a base; somewhere our past communes with our future and lets us feel safe and loved. Home is where the heart is - so maybe that’s my problem.. I just don’t know yet quite where my heart will feel at home; where it will feel safe; where it will be nurtured and enjoyed; seen for what it truly is. It was used to living on my sleeve that heart – and it jumped its post a little too easily. So now I keep it tucked up a little and tell it to be cautious because it’s easy to get trodden on when you don’t have a home.

I think I like the idea of being like a Hermit Crab.. I’ve had homes and they’ve served me well and I have loved them. Maybe I outgrew them or a storm came and shook them from my back. I’m sure there’s a home with a perfect fit – waiting on a beach somewhere, just out of sight. When everything’s prepared, the home will appear.