Where are you at home?

Yesterday in my book club one of the members mentioned that we read a lot of books about home: going home, finding a home, displacement from home.   And it’s true.  But then, much of literature is concerned with the idea of home.

Which made me think about what home means to me. It’s been a while since I’ve been still long enough to have what most people think of as a home in the traditional sense.  One day I’ll do the whole permanent address thing again, but for now, I’m content to wander.

When I travel, I say almost everywhere I go, “I could live here.” I’ve said it about Ireland and Florence and Key West and Montreal and dozens of other places, and I really mean it, every time I say it.  I probably could live in any of those places and be completely happy.  (In the summer,at least.)

Another room with a view
My latest view

So what does home mean to me?  Here’s my short list:

1)      Peace.  I’m not a city dweller, am not interested in the hustle and excitement and noise of a metropolis.  I’m a small town girl.  I need quiet time to read and write and daydream.

2)      Nature.  I need trees around, and green living things, and birds, and spaces not covered with concrete.

3)      Water.  The ocean is preferable, but a lake or river will do.

4)      Books.  I am lost without a stack of books beside my bed.

Otherwise, everything that makes a place home I carry with me:  my upbringing and my values, my dreams and my passions, and the love of my family and friends, no matter how far I am from them.  Wherever I am is home, as long as I remember who I am and where I come from and where I still want to go.

What means home to you?


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