I imagine we are all really looking for it. Home. The place where we are most comfortable and at ease. Sometimes we find it, or think we have, only to lose it. Some people never leave it, not knowing that they haven’t actually found it. The comfort and familiarity never having been challenged enough to realize that they are inhabiting someone else’s home, or idea of home. Maybe we only find it in the end? I think that is actually the truth of it, and until then, we are like hermit crabs; living as if in our own skin, but still chaffing a bit.
My current search is for something approximating home — a place I can come back to and sleep well. I feel most at home when my 4 walls contain my collection of artifacts from my travels. It is rather like having my innermost self speaking back to me.
Of the thousands of things that a person runs across while traveling, some few make a connection. I don’t mean like “I really want to have that pretty painting”, but rather, those eyes in the painting are speaking to me. Some things feel right.
I know that attachments and possessions hold a dubious status these days, but I believe our objects can provide meaningful connections and continuities in contemporary life, where everything is fluid in a very non-spiritual way. Hand made objects have soul, or souls. Someone’s vision went into its creation, someone you may never see or know has shared a bit of themself with you. There is something even a bit sacred in that.
So, I guess my mortal home is where my objects are. When someone comes into my home, they can know me better, and get a better feel for who I am and what stirs me.
That is my home. But the walls often change.