I cannot think of a time in my life that I yearned to be home more than sitting on the ten hour flight between Rome and Chicago. I wanted familiarity and comfort. I wanted things that I know. I wanted my own language. I wanted my own bed. I wanted to eat tacos. I wanted to have ice to put in my water.
Reflecting back on my last few days in Italy and my strong desire to be home makes me think that home can be a place. I'm realizing that home can be a lot of things - a feeling, a person, a memory, and home can certainly be a place.
Home is where the heart is, that's the idiom isn't it? If I think about that, I know the entire time I was in Italy I was surrounded by people who I know and love. Home was with me, in a lot of ways, just by the people I was with. But there was still an ache inside of me toward the end of that trip. An ache for something familiar. An ache for comfort. An ache to be home. I wanted the physical place of home. I wanted to rest in my bed, on my pillow. I wanted to lay on my couch. I wanted to drive by the Tastee Freez and know I could order something in English. I wanted the comfort and familiarity of being at home in a place.
The more I think about home as a place, the more I realize that home can be more than one place. The place of Bethesda is home. It's comfortable and what I've known for two years. My parent's house is home, packed with six years of life and love and arguments. The house where I grew up is home. It's the place where I lived and grew for ten years; the place where I left cookies for Santa and played with my guinea pigs and dug frogs out of the window wells. I think you could even find home in a place that isn't conventionally thought of as home. Maybe home, for you, is in a coffee shop, if that evokes familiarity and comfort and peace. Maybe home is in the park or on the running trail or where you work or in your car. Home can be a number of places, but I'd venture to say that the place of home is what makes you comfortable. Home is what you know, what's familiar, what's routine, what gives you peace.
The place of home, I am also realizing, is not static. The place you consider home can change. What I consider home has changed and is changing. Nowadays, instead of saying "home" I say "my parent's house" and I say "home" instead of "Bethesda" or "school." But alas, I can look at the coming months of transition and I can see how soon, my definition of home will change again. With change and transition in life, the place that we consider home, the place most comfortable and most familiar, also changes.
As I sit here, in my jammies and sipping tea, I can recognize that none of these places would make me feel at home if it weren't for the people and the memories associated with them. I wouldn't feel at home in Bethesda if I were living with different people. Bethesda wouldn't be home without spontaneous dance parties and messes in the kitchen and too much dessert. My home at 533 Deer Crossing Court wouldn't be the same if the Claxton family didn't reside there.
As I have written this post about home as a place, I can see that the place is just the starting point. A home is made a home by who's in it, by memory, by love and arguments and dancing and snuggling and cooking and baking and late nights and early mornings and living life. I think we'll explore more of that tomorrow.
How about a little Ben Rector for your Tuesday? Your ears will be happy. I promise.
What do you think about the idea of home as a place? What places do you call home? Can a home ever just be a place? Is there always memory and people and heart associated with home? Oh yeah, and isn't Ben Rector's voice dreamy?!!
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