Once, a man in a sauna told me “Home is where my wife’s toothbrush is”.
I think I’m beginning to get it.
When I was far, I thought home was a country. My own very determinate set of geographical co-ordinates that indicated the appropriate climate and its people, with their history, their incongruences, their lacks… everything.
Then, I returned, and I thought home was a house. Not my mother’s, or my mother-in-law’s, or my friend’s, but mine. Where I could feel like myself, decorating how I wanted to and eating what I wanted, when I wanted, cleaning when I felt like it.
When I got that, I realised that it wasn’t the place that gave the feeling of freedom or control or safety to be true and open. It was me. It was US. Him and me. Us together.
Yes, we can carry our home with us like a snail. Home is where I can feel his heartbeat first thing when I wake up. Home is sharing leftovers for dinner. Home is spending my summer holidays looking after him post-surgery.
Home is living with love.
Blessings and Light