Train of Thought: What is home?

Trying to find a home for all these thoughts, and myself.

I try not to force anything, especially when it comes to writing. I know the words will come when they’re good and ready — whether that’s in a traffic jam which always results in a lengthy, and at times incoherent, narrated text to myself, or in the middle of the night when I am in the blissful in between of wake and sleep. In those moments, the words usually come rushing as I wake myself and grab my bedside notebook, pouring over pages until the break of dawn. 

So, although forcing myself not to be so meticulously rigid in this made-up publishing cadence that I have created for myself feels unsettling, and in the spirit of procrastinating my next series as all the words have yet to fully brew — here is a snippet of the trains of thought that have inhabited my mind as of late.

Side Note: Yes, there are plenty of run-on sentences and maybe even some unfinished ones and yes, that is precisely how my brain functions. Thanks for keeping up as I (we?) make sense of it all. 

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What is home?

For me, coming back home is always bitter, minus the sweet. What a terrible way to think, right?! Yes, and I have beat myself up over it plenty. Now, it isn’t because I am short of a life filled with love or short of a life filled with a family that supports me and friends that accept me as I am. Rather, I count my blessings every day for the growing family around me, for being surrounded by genuine love, for the abundance of it, and for having people in my life that I can lean on.

So, I ask myself, why do I rarely ever get homesick, a part from missing the people who hold a prominent place in my life? In an attempt to best describe it, my soul feels very detached from the place I was born and grew up in (just outside of Montreal, Canada). I feel out of place, out of touch and out of tune here. Whether it’s in the suburban simulation of stacked homes that give me an eerie feeling anytime I look too closely, in the heart of the dusty and gray cement city, or the very kitschy neighborhoods midtown where I more often than not trek simply for my favorite coffee, none of it really fills me up. I mean, the coffee kind of does – small wins. In recent years, it has actually made me feel that much more disconnected as I have grappled with who I am, who I want to be, where I want to be, my core values, my needs, my wants, and desires. So that begs the question, what is home if not the place that I would typically call home? The place where all my belongings are? Or where I am currently living? Or the place where my family and friends are? If I really think about what constitutes home I think about where I feel like I can let my guards down. Where I feel free from restrictions, societal standards in behaving and acting… So wouldn't that be where I come to slip off the pressures of each day and the space where I lay my head every night? Or with the people that I have grown up with and have known my whole life? Not really, not for me at least. The brick walls of this house, the roof that shields it, and the foundation that holds it all together feels more like an entrapment rather than a sanctuary. As for the people, and despite all the love, very few have ever truly understood me. Not wholly, at least, and not on a deep level. Not to my core. They’ve only ever understood the bits and pieces they can unravel — despite my mom, who bless her heart, has tried (and probably still is trying) to make sense of all of me for almost 28 years and counting. And despite my best friend, who I've remained inseparable from and grown with for over 20 years?!, who knows my every thought in my quietest moments, who laughs at all my jokes that no one else finds funny, and who speaks the words I’m about to say before I have a chance to. So, despite them knowing me as best as I know myself, home isn’t necessarily where they are, because the constraints of my surroundings still remain.

As I have been trying to make sense of it all, find my place in this world, and try to find my peace within it, I’ve come across two written pieces that may (or totally may have not) shed some light on this mental struggle and kickstarted these exact words that you are reading. 

The first, was from our very own

Lily Montasser

in her Sound Off Substack publication and a quote from her interview with the late Dr. Wallace J. Nichols:

“On intimacy:
‘There’s a massive decline in privacy in our world for all kinds of reasons. Water may be the last place you can go to get away from that surveillance. Your technology doesn’t like to be under water. People hike with headphones. They ski with augmented reality goggles. Water is the place where you can get away and actually have real solitude. Real privacy. Real intimacy. Whether it’s romantic or individual intimacy, you have the ability to experience that in a world that’s quickly taking all of that away.’”

Now, you may be asking yourself what does this have to do with home? Patience, friends. I’ll get to it shortly.

The second, was from the famous, and ever-so-talented Frances Mayes in her book A Place in the World: Finding the Meaning of Home, which I had spontaneously picked up while not shopping for myself at the bookstore (as if that ever works). I hadn’t even really started the book, only having gotten through the Preface and Introduction before my mind started racing in the kind of way where you just know a book is going to move and imprint on you in a really significant way. She describes the plentiful places she has called home and how the word has shapeshifted with each move and connection to the next.

In that case, if home isn’t fixed, if it is moveable with each new connection made in different locations and countries, is home rather an emotion and not really a place at all? 

Those that know me, know that I don’t belong in Montreal. Mostly because I am constantly voicing it to anyone that will listen. The conversation is usually followed by “Well, where do you want to live?”  and the answer is always the same “I don’t know yet, but it’s somewhere by the sea.” This brings me back to that quote from Lily’s article. Water. The truth in the matter is, that there is nowhere in the world that I feel more at peace, more in tune and more myself. The sea is my coming home, each and every time. It’s the place where I feel most connected and intimate with myself, my thoughts, and my surroundings. The place that quiets all the noise. Because home is meant to do just that, right? The sea is that for me — the place I let me guard down. It’s my place away from any pressures, away from any dogmas imposed by society or family. The water strips away everything that holds me back. It lets me float and feel and be alive.

But, how can it be a home? The waters that move in the vast open sea can’t be pinned down or defined. A little like myself, I guess. Maybe that’s why I feel so connected to it. So understood. The first time I ever arrived in Italy felt like some sort of homecoming. Albeit, at the time, I was more lost than I had ever been before. And there’s something about the quintessential sense of welcoming that Italy embodies that makes you feel found. So, maybe it was an illusion conjured up by my wildered self and Italy’s open embrace, and maybe Italy wasn’t home at all. You see, the need to go, to move, to explore, never left. Not even there. The thing is, it comes in waves… that overwhelming feeling to just go. To leave everything behind and set off on an unknown adventure. To chase all that calls my name. To chase the sea and all those sunsets that descend into its blues. It ripples, comes crashing, multiplies and then settles, but never ceases. The tide grows higher, stronger, with every passing full moon and subsides as the moon's cycle comes full circle. Similar to that feeling I have to wander. At times it’s stronger than ever, while at other times it slows and ever so gently moves, but it never stills.

So, I guess my question is, is it that I just simply haven’t met my home yet or is it that home for me, is like the sea, nowhere and everywhere at the same time? Is home simply freedom? The vast openness and endless possibilities of everything? Or is home the intrinsic need to be understood at your deepest core? Maybe I’m asking too many questions, maybe I’m trying to say too much, maybe I’m overthinking it, or maybe I’m still trying to figure it out.

Yours,
Melody