What Does Home Mean to You?
And has that changed over time?
Hey, there.
I had this dream a few years ago. I had just finished reading a book that really affected me - a memoir by the name of Educated. It was written by Tara Westover, who had grown up in the mountains of Utah. Her father didn’t trust government or anything provided by it, and so the family didn’t take advantage of things like medical care or public education. It was fascinating. And heartbreaking. And infuriating. Each time I thought she’d managed to break free of her family’s hold, I had to watch as she walked right back into the place that had caused her such distress.
I devoured this book. I read the second half in one sitting, late into the night. And when I finally fell asleep, I had a dream. I was back at my childhood home, but it was an alien land. Like, I had to travel on a space ship in a space suit to get there. And there was something unfamiliar and wrong about it, even though it was the place where I grew up. I woke up unnerved, feeling like it had been more than just a dream.
There is a question that’s been percolating in the background since I first started talking about Andy Grammer and what it means to be stuck and the unmeasured wholesomeness of Ted Lasso:
What is home? What does it mean? What do we owe to the place that brought us up? And what does it owe to us? I guess that’s more than one question, but no bother. I always was an overachiever.
To start that conversation, I wanted to set the scene. I’ve talked here about where I grew up, but I’ve never shown you. So I typed my former permanent address into the search bar and turned on the satellite toggle. When the image loaded, my head tilted to the left, and then to the right. And that feeling from my dream - a feeling I remember clearly, though it happened nearly a thousand days ago, came over me.
I could draw a map from the Kansas City airport to my house, an hour away. I could close my eyes and envision my front yard - a triangle lined with pine trees and a low fence made of interlocking lengths of wood. I can smell the pond out back, feel the brambles and twigs raking across my bare calves as I half-walk, half-slide down the hill to the creek where I used to poke at rocks and chase frogs.
But this place - I didn’t recognize it. The triangular yard is still there, and I can make out the deck. But the pond! Where is it? The creek! I can’t find it! The orchard, where we could have theoretically gone to pick peaches and apples and I don’t even know what else! Where has it gone?! Even the yard has changed - the yard where I used to run around with my dog, Simba - buried under a fork in the long driveway that wasn’t there before. I don’t recognize this place, and I’m panicking a little. Were the frogs and the land bridge that led past the pond and the fresh, flowing creek was all the product of a kid’s imagination?
I know they weren’t. I was there. But that knowledge does nothing to ease the anger and unease I feel at seeing my home (a home with which, if you’ll remember, I like to deny much of an emotional connection) adulterated - modified in some way without my knowledge.
It’s pretty clear I’ve got a lot more to unpack in answering those questions above. I’ll take a stab at them next week. Until then, I’d love to hear your thoughts.
What does home mean to you? Has that definition changed over time? What does your home owe to you, and what do you owe to it?
I thought maybe I’d have some answers, but after that simple Google search, all I’ve got is some more thinking to do.
Talk soon,
P.S. The big update this week is that I opened up the document with the book manuscript in it and jabbed at the keyboard for a few minutes last week. 🤣 Hopefully I’ll have more to say next week. Only one more week until things slow down (she says every week in perpetuity).