Whisking our way home from B.C. today and thinking about the novel. I am unplugged for the month. The novel is all until June anyway when I hope to have the first draft (which is a misnomer because I have rewritten plenty already) done.
Home is a subjective, isn’t it. You wouldn’t think I would feel attached to a spot so far from where I started out. I like the idea that as an adult a person is always between homes. Home is where one is and where one came from and where one is moving towards.
Alan Jackson wrote and sang a song about Home. In it he names his childhood home and declares it that only place he will ever call “home”. I know people who long for little patches of ground because of the better memories they perceive got left behind there and people who attach “home” to people only. Home is where the heart is held fast, I guess.
I think a lot about home these days. We are finishing up the outside reno on our home and then we will take a break before tackling what remains to be done inside. I am always mindful that this home will not be our forever one and yet at the same time, I don’t count on that either because life has so often had other plans for me than the ones I had for myself.
My mom is working on creating the home she always wanted but that Dad’s stingy ways and deep-rooted aversion to change kept her from having, but I wonder if she will find the comfort in it that she hopes for?
My brother, CB, searches for a home. Any home. I don’t think he will ever find one that holds him still.
MK the middle daughter is hoping for a new home amongst like-minded commune dwellers, but I fear she to will be disappointed. She is still too young to realize that if something is truly important, you should take charge of it yourself.
So, to recap, home is a place of the past. present and future. It is a subject and an object. A dream, a need and an idea.
When you are home, where is that exactly?