“What Does Home Mean to You?”

It should be so simple to define, but yet…

Photo by author.

Is it a place with four walls? Is it in the vicinity? Is it a feeling?

It should be so simple to define, yet here I am, my fingers hovering over the keys, unsure of what to write, waiting impatiently for my brain to tell them their next step.

I don’t like writing challenges; they trip me up. I feel like I’m trying to jump into someone else’s mind, someone else’s thought process, and so I avoid them.

But ‘home’, just hearing the word comforts me. Surely I could write about home, a place I long to be when I’m not there, a place I despise having to leave when I am.

Home is my reading chair, nestled into the corner of the room, a candle to its left and a small table lamp to its right.

Home is the herbs hanging up to dry in my kitchen, where every time I walk by, I catch a small whiff of basil.

Home is hugs from my kids when I enter our house after a long day away at work, and excited, slobbery kisses from my dogs.

Home is the wildflowers out my window.

Home is the painting of the Mediterranean hanging in my living room, the one where every time I see it I think of the trip where I bought it.

So, home is also a memory of being in a different location with the love of my life.

Which makes me think back to when I was in college.

I left town for a university a couple of hours away.

Every time I drove back to visit my family, when I got to a certain point along the highway, right before entering my town, my whole body relaxed, and I’d smile.

I was home.

My brain noticed it. My body noticed it. My soul noticed it.

I could be me. I felt comfort and tranquility. No judgement. No pretending to fit in.

Interestingly, as much as I love home now, as a teenager, I hated home. Home meant confinement and rules. Elsewhere meant freedom and expression.

During that time, my friends were my home. The sight of them felt like home.

So, for me, maybe home is more of a feeling. A location, or a thing, or a person that brings me happiness, that lets me be free to be myself, that makes me feel comfortable down to my bones.

This piece was written as part of the Writing Challenge: “What Does Home Mean to You?”

[embed]✍️ Writing Challenge: “What Does Home Mean to You?” Some prompts ask us to remember. And then some prompts ask us to feel. This is one of them.medium.com

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