On My Quest for Home
Sundays are my melancholy days. Not every Sunday. But, if I am going to have a melancholy day, it generally is a Sunday.
Sunday is the day of rest. People feel like it is the time to slow down, to not do much of anything. I am horrible at not doing much of anything. A Sunday with nothing to do can feel like punishment to me. For my introvert friends, Sundays feel like relief, but for me, Sundays can be lonely. Sundays make me feel like I want to go home.
What? I am home, right? Yes, literally I am at home. However, being in the place you reside doesn't necessarily feel like home.
So, this Sunday, in the midst of my melancholy, I decided to reflect on what going, or being, home has meant to me over the years.
I grew up in a lovely home, with parents who cared (and still care) about me, in a fantastic neighborhood, where we had neighbors that took an interest in the lives of my parents, as well as mine and my brother's. I started, at a young age, understanding that home is not just location and not just the family you born with, but it is also the people with whom you surround yourself, the "family" you adopt along the way.
In high school, my friend Heather's house, felt like home to me. I spent so much time there... after field hockey practice, every weekend, most days of the week. There was something about Heather's that just felt comfortable, like I belonged. As it turns out, Heather, not just the house in which she resides, then and now, feels like home. In my adult life, when I have the "I want to go home" feeling, Heather is the first person I think of. So, I also began to understand that home is about belonging.
My apartment at Towson, with Shelbie and Sasha, felt like home too, until it was time to move on. My condo in Annapolis, with Jen, felt the same way. These were temporary homes that were perfect at the time, until we all outgrew them and had to find home somewhere else. These people, though, still feel like home, as do some of the memories from back then. Home, too, is in the memories.
I felt at home living in Baltimore, in my tiny little row house that was packed to the gills with stuff. Why did that feel like home? Well, for the same reason my neighborhood growing up did - I had people who I cared for, and who cared for me. I was in that frightening time of life being a first time mom, so, this was especially important - I was not alone. I had things to do and people with whom to engage. There was an energy there that felt like home to me. Home is also about feeling good in the energy of a place, and again, it's about the people.
Living here on Kent Island has been more challenging for me. I will say that I do not feel at home. I've lived here for almost 7 years, and if I could escape, I would. I don't know where I'd run to, but if I wasn't completely happy with the schools and their efforts for my children, I would run in a heartbeat.
That being said, there are pieces of Kent Island that do feel like home. The gym is one of those. There, I have found the people, the sense of belonging, and the energy I need to feel at home. I generally spend every Sunday at the gym to fight that melancholy feeling. The gym might be about my need to work hard, but it is also about my need to find home.
We each have our own perspective on what home means for us. What I've learned, is that for me, home is being surrounded by the people I care about and who care about me. It has nothing to do with my kitchen, my living room, or my bed. It's about the people, the sense of belonging, the memories created, and the energy felt while being there. Home is not "where I hang my hat," but instead, it is more about the hats that hang beside mine.
I have found home and continue to search for it. I am so grateful for the homes that I have had in the past, those homes that still reside in my heart. And, I am hopeful that I will find new homes in the future. For now (and for always), home will be in love from my children, from my family and friends, and in the experiences with which I choose to fill my world. I am so lucky - I can find home anywhere.
So, what means home to you?
Sunday is the day of rest. People feel like it is the time to slow down, to not do much of anything. I am horrible at not doing much of anything. A Sunday with nothing to do can feel like punishment to me. For my introvert friends, Sundays feel like relief, but for me, Sundays can be lonely. Sundays make me feel like I want to go home.
What? I am home, right? Yes, literally I am at home. However, being in the place you reside doesn't necessarily feel like home.
So, this Sunday, in the midst of my melancholy, I decided to reflect on what going, or being, home has meant to me over the years.
I grew up in a lovely home, with parents who cared (and still care) about me, in a fantastic neighborhood, where we had neighbors that took an interest in the lives of my parents, as well as mine and my brother's. I started, at a young age, understanding that home is not just location and not just the family you born with, but it is also the people with whom you surround yourself, the "family" you adopt along the way.
In high school, my friend Heather's house, felt like home to me. I spent so much time there... after field hockey practice, every weekend, most days of the week. There was something about Heather's that just felt comfortable, like I belonged. As it turns out, Heather, not just the house in which she resides, then and now, feels like home. In my adult life, when I have the "I want to go home" feeling, Heather is the first person I think of. So, I also began to understand that home is about belonging.
My apartment at Towson, with Shelbie and Sasha, felt like home too, until it was time to move on. My condo in Annapolis, with Jen, felt the same way. These were temporary homes that were perfect at the time, until we all outgrew them and had to find home somewhere else. These people, though, still feel like home, as do some of the memories from back then. Home, too, is in the memories.
I felt at home living in Baltimore, in my tiny little row house that was packed to the gills with stuff. Why did that feel like home? Well, for the same reason my neighborhood growing up did - I had people who I cared for, and who cared for me. I was in that frightening time of life being a first time mom, so, this was especially important - I was not alone. I had things to do and people with whom to engage. There was an energy there that felt like home to me. Home is also about feeling good in the energy of a place, and again, it's about the people.
Living here on Kent Island has been more challenging for me. I will say that I do not feel at home. I've lived here for almost 7 years, and if I could escape, I would. I don't know where I'd run to, but if I wasn't completely happy with the schools and their efforts for my children, I would run in a heartbeat.
That being said, there are pieces of Kent Island that do feel like home. The gym is one of those. There, I have found the people, the sense of belonging, and the energy I need to feel at home. I generally spend every Sunday at the gym to fight that melancholy feeling. The gym might be about my need to work hard, but it is also about my need to find home.
We each have our own perspective on what home means for us. What I've learned, is that for me, home is being surrounded by the people I care about and who care about me. It has nothing to do with my kitchen, my living room, or my bed. It's about the people, the sense of belonging, the memories created, and the energy felt while being there. Home is not "where I hang my hat," but instead, it is more about the hats that hang beside mine.
I have found home and continue to search for it. I am so grateful for the homes that I have had in the past, those homes that still reside in my heart. And, I am hopeful that I will find new homes in the future. For now (and for always), home will be in love from my children, from my family and friends, and in the experiences with which I choose to fill my world. I am so lucky - I can find home anywhere.
So, what means home to you?
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