Home is where the (___) is

Home is where the (___) is…

What would you say here if it was your job to fill in the blank? assuming you wanted to aim for a true and authentic statement….

The first word that pops into my mind is: home where the heart is.

That’s a well known saying, but what does it mean?

Well, we can probably assume it’s not meant to be taken literally. I don’t really see how any lucid and sincere person could possibly call a chest cavity home.

So heart must be figurative.

Perhaps this idiom means home is place you love? actually, maybe not. There are places I love that certainly aren’t home for me. I love Mt Subasio, above Assisi, Italy, but I’ve only been there once and I couldn’t call it home even if I wanted to because…

well, I don’t live there.

Rather, maybe this idiom means: home is where the people you live, in proximity to the people who matter most? I’m not entirely sure, but this is the explanation that makes the most sense to me.

And right now, home for me is the same place as home for my kids, and they’re the people I love most. So maybe we’re on to something?

But… this idiom just doesn’t feel complete. It seems sincere, but… limited. Sentimental and maybe even cute but lacking some vital substance.

… Sometimes this idea, that home is where the heart is, it can be dead wrong.

Because my kids and I have certainly lived together in a household that did not feel like home to me.

Before my split from my ex, the house we lived in was a place of conflict. More a battle ground than a refuge, and the hostility made our house a place of anxiety and defensiveness rather than a place of safety. Maybe there’s always some stress between cohabitants— but the stress there was too much of an emotional strain to feel healthy or natural or typical, and living there I really felt both hopeless and homeless.

In fact I felt more homeless living there than I ever felt when I was actually homeless.

Years ago I spent a winter homeless— odd as it is to say, this situation was a joy in its own way! I remember most of my homelessness very fondly… I get nostalgic when I reminisce on those days.

I do not wish to romanticize homelessness or downplay the traumas and dangers that many homeless people face.

But, the fact is I was very fortunate.

My homelessness was an easy homelessness— I lived in my car, a Toyota Corolla. Not the most sprawling abode, but it gave me shelter and security. I also had a job, working at a Trader Joe’s in Long Island— so I had enough money to eat whenever I was hungry. And though it was the winter, I was (mostly) protected from the cold— I had good camping gear with me. A sleeping bag rated to -10 degrees, and plenty of layers.

My toes still got pretty cold, but I started filling hot water bottles before leaving work each night and that helped.

I used hand sanitizer and baby wipes for hygiene and my phone or books for entertainment— and I cranked out lots of writing. For all I know, some of that writing might even have been good!

But what I enjoyed most about my homelessness was the sense of peace. It was freeing!

It is no exaggeration to say that my experiences of homelessness were more luxurious and about as comfortable as most of the camping trips I’ve been on.

Less spacious than a tent and less relaxing than the woods, but living in a car, for me, was a more or less comparable experience.

I enjoyed it most of the time.

Very often, when I was living under the same roof as my ex I wished and longed for the past peace of my homelessness— it was more enjoyable. I felt safer, more relaxed, and less gnawed than I ever felt living with her. (To be clear, this isn’t a criticism of her as much as it’s a criticism of us! We were simply incompatible, to an extreme degree.)

So I’m tempted to say “home is where your peace is”. That feels almost right.

But my car wasn’t home. Not really. Though it was safety, peace, and comfort, it was lacking some absolutely critical facilities that help make a home a home.

Obviously, my car had no shower, and more urgently: it had no toilet.

Of course there are some work arounds. Walmart bathrooms…. Park bathrooms….

But what does one do when all the shitters are closed and there aren’t any bushes or trees to hide behind?

I remember one evening where something I ate didn’t sit right.

I remember the cramps, but they didn’t hurt as much as the terror of knowing I had nowhere to go to void my bowels.

I remember the realization that even if the stores were open, even if there had been a porta potty right there on the curb, this problem was far too immediate.

I remember the frantic shame of trying to find a private way to shit in the front seat of my Corolla. I remember shimmying out of my sleeping bag and piling my backpack and all my gear on the seat next to me to block one of the windows.

I remember squatting below the passenger seat, in front of the glove compartment.

I remember hastily dumping out a container of Trader Joe’s chocolate coated dunkers.

…. I remember not caring that the cookies were scattered all over the floor, and I remember using their plastic tub as a make shift, portable toilet.

I remember seething, there in the dark, shuddering in pain and peeking through the windshield and watching people walk by in the city that never sleeps.

I watched them, while my windows fogged up and I remember in vivid, horrible detail the relief I felt when I was done and nobody had glanced in my direction.

I prayed my gratitude that I had baby wipes in the car.

When I was finished, I packed up the no longer empty tub of dunkers and wipes, wrapped it all in a garbage bag, tied it off and threw the mess away in a public trash bin.

It felt awful to leave something so toxic in a public place, but I had no good alternative.

I went to work early that day, so I’d have reliable access to a flushing toilet if the need arose again.

Before this horrible experience “home is where your peace is” would have felt a complete statement to me.

After this experience, I understand: it might not be everything but on some undeniable level “home is where you can safely drop your emergency deuces in clean comfort and privacy.”

So what makes a home?

Loved ones? that’s a start. But even if your heart is there, unhealthy relationships can break that home.

Peace? Maybe… but a stomach bug or food poisoning might really crap all over that notion.

A safe place to shit? That seems a little crass, but there’s some truth to it— it’s still incomplete though.

So how would I fill in the blank?

With all three?

Home is where the heart is at peace and you have a place to shit safely?

Is that what Bing Crosby meant when he said “there’s no place like home for the holidays?”

I don’t know. That’s ridiculous, but I suppose it’s honest, as far as my experiences can declare.

Right now I’m at home.

I don’t have to be away from my heart. I don’t have to bear hostility or aggression. I don’t have to figure out how to stealth-shit on the street without the public knowing.

I’m in a safe, warm place, where peace is the norm. My kids are sleeping upstairs, and there’s indoor plumbing— the bathrooms have privacy blinds and close-able doors.

I guess my thoughts here boil down to gratitude. At times I’ve felt homeless, even when I’ve had any one of these core needs met. I’ve felt “not at home” even when I’ve had a house of my own.

So my wishes this season, and my prayers, are:

that those who are bearing the difficulties of true homelessness this season might receive generosity from people who are able to give from positions of comfort. that any who call themselves homeless might be afforded the comforts and safety and warmth and privacies and dignity befitting all people.

that those who are made to feel unwelcome in their own housing might find peace, and inner confidence to help them bear the hostility and struggle of a house in turmoil .

that people be with the ones they love, in whatever ways they need to be.

And you the reader, I hope you have a happy home, whatever that means for you.

Peace

Here's the music I was listening to when I wrote this: