Home
I’ve always hated the cliché “home is where the heart is.” Gah! Whose heart? And also: well, duh, your heart is inseparable from you, so by extension, doesn’t it seems obvious to anyone with half a brain that the concepts of home and self are intertwined? Ergo, home goes with you wherever you go (obvious again). Although, as a side note, it’s worth mentioning that this last one always conjured the image of the poor turtle carrying his house on his back. And so you can see how my mind always seems to run a full loop of “no-shit-who-why-where-how?” every time I hear slash read that damn line.
I digress.
Home.
For someone who’s been without one for the past fifteen months, this seems like quite a heavy word. Make no mistake — I’ve had houses alright this past year. First, there was my beyond amazing student accommodation at Uni. That red brick building was an oasis of fun, laughter, and love. I met some of my best friends and created the most fantastic memories at Denmark Road. But somewhere, at the back of my mind, there was always that nagging voice that insisted this wasn’t my permanent home––much as I’d have loved for it to be.
Then came a series of moves, one after the other, from one house to the next. An incredible Airbnb, replete with the most adorable couple I’ve ever met and their beautiful cocker spaniel, Berryl. Soon after, I moved in with a Buddhist acquaintance-turned-friend Edit (more on my Nichiren Buddhist practice, too, shortly), who (far too) generously opened up her home to me. This home was equipped with the best add-on of all: Edit’s two magnificent cats, Oscar and Martin.
Now, I must mention, I’ve *never* really considered myself a cat person. Always been quite weary of them, to be honest. But these two munchkins won my heart, and how. Though not the friendliest creatures on the planet, I’ve now come to realise that cats are an acquired taste, the way beer is for some people. They don’t demand your attention the way dogs do. They don’t need much looking after. Apart from twice-daily mealtimes, they couldn’t be bothered to acknowledge your existence. And yet. And yet, they burrowed a special place in my heart because, well, they’re just so damn cute!
The third and most recent place of residence in my recent nomadic existence is another home belonging to another close friend. A casual conversation led to my friend Connie graciously offering up her home to me for the month she and her wonderful fiancé Coke were off on a whirlwind tour of Southeast Asia. And I’m beyond grateful. Her home has welcomed me and Juan with warmth and love, and we’ve spent wonderful evenings here in the heart of this home, its kitchen––cooking, eating, drinking, writing, working, and watching our favourite series on Netflix. We’ve really lived in this home, and I can’t be grateful enough to Connie and Coke for their generosity.
Coming to the question of my next home?
To be precise, there is none (so far). I’m still in the process of figuring out where I’ll go from here in a week, but I’m sure the Universe will provide me another home in another part of this magical city I now call home.
Does this gypsy life terrify me?
Absolutely.
But it also thrills and excites me. I’ve never had the opportunity to live like this before, and since this year has been about pushing my own boundaries to their very extremes, my rootless experience seems most appropriate. Friends keep telling me how they envy my situation and how they’d love to trade their routine, seemingly humdrum lives for my gypsy experience. To me, their roots seem like paradise. The grass and it being greener, and all that jazz…
Either way, home has come to mean so many different things to me over this past year. And I suspect, the word will expand and shape-shift to mean other things as the days roll on.
But to me, home now means that irreplaceable feeling of being safe.
Thank you for your time to read my little tale about home and belonging. If you liked this piece, and would like to read more, hit the “clap” symbol and I promise to regale (hopefully!) with more tales.