My daughter says that home is wherever she is. In summer, home is camp. Or vacation. And the rest of the year it is home. She keeps on insisting this is the case no matter what I say to her. I’m not quite sure I believe her, but she is sticking to her story.
A quiet solitary walk in the woods in the early morning, just before winter, when the trees are losing their last leaves and the air is brisk enough to make your ears sting a little but not quite so cold that it’s uncomfortable to be out-of-doors.
This situation is quite literally the most comfortable I’ve ever been with myself and with the area around me.
I love this question, I wish I could give you 20 GQ’s. As I have been thinking about this myself. Since I am about to disolve my entire home, street, country. I think home is where you find love, where you find comfort and understanding.
A place where you can relax. A place where you don’t have to be a certain way or act a certain way and you’ll never be self-conscious in your home. A place where people know you and you know them. A place where it is warm in every way. The place where your bed is.
My own home is home. I have a big garden, a house my husband (and I but mostly him) has lovingly worked to make into our home, my dogs and cat are here, all the things I love are around me and I can be myself totally. I love being in my home.
The house I live in now feels like home in a way no other ever has. More specifically, though, I get that “Ahhhh, home” feeling when I’m curled up on the couch resting my head on my husband’s leg, his arm draped around me, just watching TV.