Finding home

Where is home? A question beating through my veins as I lose parts of myself and find others that require hiding. What is home? There’s no google maps for life so there’s no way to know if I’m on a journey or wondering pointlessly. Do I have a destination of security and acceptance? Or must I settle for pockets of time where community and peace are a little stronger for a moment? These pockets of golden light provide hope like photosynthesis. They’re the only reason I have some inkling into what home is, a starting point for investigation.

Maybe home is what everyone thinks of: your childhood home. A center point of life while everything is new, 0000. Your mitochondria. The first cell of our existence, the seed from which you grow. Waiting there, no matter what happens, is the safety net of your parents who untangle all your confusing thoughts. When you had opportunity to find yourself, to explore. Travelling as the wind without restrictions. Where problems are as small as you are compared to stars. When everything is filled with wonder. A glowing bubble of happiness, curiosity, play, and love is your life source not your heart. Familiarity in the ever-expanding world before you. The marks on the wall in the laundry toilet where your height is measured each birthday. How your dad explains why your sister is taller than you by comparing the pencil lines and when that doesn’t satisfy your jealously, he predicts that when you’re both finished growing, you’ll be taller. You hold onto this hope throughout puberty. The stenciled ducks on the walls of your bedroom that your mum labored over while pregnant, she demands gratification for this. Your first pet that’ll be your security password for the rest of your life, and how every Sunday morning you, your dad and the dog would go for walks that may or may not have included trespassing. Feeling safe enough to yell at your sister. The kitchen where you invented sticky pancakes, that was actually just undercooked pancakes. The sandpit where you played pirates and ate sand. The water tank you pretend was a concert stage with your sister. The general shop that you used to buy lollies with stolen money from your piggy bank or your mum’s purse. The birthday parties and play groups. The endless number of sleepovers with your best friend. The now broken DVD player that presented the magic of Barbie and Disney movies. Your mum’s glory box your sister drew a number five on so you could play trains. When your friend came over and you pretend that if you jumped onto a box you’d be absorbed into that world. The imagination. The endless possibilities, seeing life not for what it was but for what its potential.

Or maybe home is your childhood best friend’s home. Like a movie, a dream come true she lived a short bike ride away. You were there so often her parents could’ve applied for dual custody. The potholes in her driveway, the time you got to sit on your knees on your booster seat because you were searching for shoes that fell out their car as they went on holidays. Knowing their kitchen layout as well as you know your own. Calling her mum ‘aunty’ even though you’re not related. Her sister was my sister’s best friend. The acres of possibility, pretending we had to survive- the only two alive. Endless bike rides throughout the neighborhood, pretending they were our horses. Loving sleeping over because for recess at school we were allowed rollups, something my mum never let me have. I don’t believe in the idea of ‘my other half’ but we never left each other’s ide. Our year three teacher couldn’t tell us apart. How she convinced me to break the rules and how she cut my hair within an inch of its life. The security and warmth of having someone constantly by your side. How our families would go on holidays together. Arguing in later years about who was who in photos, having the exact same pair of bathers but one pink and one purple. The threads of our friendship starting to pull and the hurt of fading away. But that’s what makes it valuable, that it inevitably does end. Yet, knowing this, you treasure every moment and continue to do so.

Whenever I think of home, I think of places I spent hours and hours, places of community and memories woven into their bricks. How they were built into my personality, forever etched into the walls of my being with the fondness of looking at old photos and being able to detail the moment explicitly. Walking through my high school years after I graduated. The memories so thick in the air they have their own smell, like walking into a bakery. The couch we sat on during lunch, the hallway we tried to walk with all our shoelaces tied together, the room that housed so many laughs and warnings to be quiet. The science room where the teacher pretended to not laugh at you and your friends while you made animal sounds and where your friend burnt off her arm hair. The grass you pulled every assembly and how the teachers told you that they did in fact pay for lawnmowing and we shouldn’t make them redundant. The heartbreak of hearing rumors about you, of bullying, and feeling inadequate. That despite it all you’ll be forever thankful you got to spend eleven years with your friends. The CrossFit box that became your second home. Being only the only girl made you feel strong because you could still match up. Having the trainers know you by name, and still ask about you even though you haven’t gone for more than five years. The satisfaction of getting stronger and faster, lift heavier. How those workouts looked after your mental health. Accidentally picking up a weight eight times heavier you were supposed to but using it anyway. The time the heat and period pain almost made you faint. But importantly, how CrossFit initiated an unbreakable relationship with your mum, which continues now even though illness stole your ability to exercise. The grief of slowly saying goodbye to such a core and integral part of my identity. Places where space and time are slowly altered. The big round-about at three am, libraries and bookshops that instill a fairy-like peace, and car drives with conversation struggling to hold the weight of your vulnerability or with music pumping so loud that all you can think is ‘I love these idiots next to me’.

Perhaps, home is spirituality. Going to church every Sunday since I can remember. Giggling about the person who coughed and hoping the minister would spill the wine. Continuing you to grow and absorbing every word like a sponge. Taking in the hope and the love. Personal devotions that satisfy the soul searching. Finding peace in the passages of the Bible, understanding of the universe and your purpose in its teachings. In the darkest times, a promise of better things. Maybe home is coming back to yourself, making your heart and body home again after being examined, judged, poked, and trimmed by society. Relearning who you are, your values and your interests. Finding solace and acceptance within yourself, learning to appreciate each stretch mark, freckle, the things you love and the things you use to want to change. Being lost in the wilderness of the unknown but finding a unkept path, a little shed falling apart at the seams. Slowly, removing the rats that tell you how you are isn’t enough, removing the cobwebs of self-doubt. Putting on the candles, illuminating your little house with gratitude; that little flicker that burns so softly, gently appreciating the small moments and warming the shed with hope. Picture frames of loved ones. Forgiving past mistakes fixes the leaking roof. The feeling of giving yourself a hug.

Or home could be found in nature. The sand between your toes, the sun wrapping you up in a blanket and the ocean welcoming you as one of their own. There’s one beach, I grew up in its embrace. Pretending we were mermaids, building sandcastles and drinking water from the stream coming off the mountain. There’s another place, where the tree hangs over the river, protected by the cover of leaves, the birds and animals performing a symphony. Together, settling any anxiety, peace flowing though you.

I’m drawn like a magnet to the idea that home is other people. Your mum who was there for you as your health disappeared, an anchor through the waves of depression. Your best friend who knows you inside and out, there’s no secrecy only trust. Your confidant. The emotional vulnerability who isn’t scary but validating. Friends that make you wonder what’s in the coffee because you can talk for hours on end, as if it hasn’t been months of lost time. Those shoulders you cry on and who cry on yours. Holding hands romantically for the first time and how it makes you feel warm and safe. Meeting people who seem to share your brain. Shared epiphany after shared epiphany, the feeling you get when you finally find the other sock. The ‘I love you’ s and promises of never leaving. Being able to trust that those promises will be kept. Internet friends who understand your chronic illness in a way no one else can because they have it too. Study buddies you can bounce ideas off, whom you love learning with and seamlessly become friends outside of learning. The epitome of comfort: holding hands platonically. Sitting comfortably in silence. Extended family who supports you constantly, even if from afar. Having your cousins run up to you the minute you walk through the door, laughing with the aunties and uncles. People coming and going through your life, a few burning stars, and a few constant galaxies. Thankful for them regardless of the time present. Connection tying you together like your arteries are entwined. That little shed isn’t a solo project anymore.

Maybe I have no idea what home is. But I’m getting closer. I think its security and peace. I think it’s found in pure but small moments, in places visited frequently, in spirituality and yourself, and in other people. Home is those moments that we feel loved and like life is worth living. Those moments where that glowing bubble comes back and maybe even grows a little bigger.