"Home" is a term I think about often. I've had many of them - from my childhood house in Ennis to my stepfather's abode in Burleson to my three apartments in Austin. With each move, I make a place for myself within those confines -- leaving my footprints through the halls, fingerprints on the doors -- and they become a home. I grew up in small towns where the meaning of home is not so fluid. Many people live in the same neighborhood they grew up in, their kids go to the same high school they did. There is nothing wrong with this, as I know everyone has a different definition of what home truly means, but I have never been satisfied with this view.
To me, home is more of an idea than a place. Issue 11 of Kinfolk focuses on defining this, and writer Louisa Thomsen Brits sums it up perfectly:
Home is about presence, not property. Thoughts of home follow the contours of landscape and memory, but the shape of home shifts as I grow less attached to stuff and can live closer to the heart of things. Home is a clearing in a patch of woodland, the curve of a hill, the pulse of life on a dance floor, a shared blanket, birch trees, backyard fires, a strip of beach, dusk, a place to plant things. Home is a lit lantern, slow mornings, spooning, the smell of coffee and wind-dried washing, the dust and heat of Africa, silence, bare feet, everyday rituals, a notebook, a dark field, a small hand in mine. Home is our wooden table with its burn and pencil marks, cup rings and scratches, and our huge bed of mattresses pushed together on the floor. Home is wherever we discover we belong: to a place, to another or to a passing moment. Home is honesty, acceptance and relatedness: complicity, community and connection wherever we are.
After reading through the issue, I asked myself, What is home to me? Here is what I came up with.
Home is hot coffee and tea. No matter where I live or visit, my morning cup of coffee and evening tea are essential. There is such comfort in the aroma, and in many ways the heat is warming. One of my most distinct memories growing up was the smell of my mother's morning cup of coffee permeating every room of our house, the scent gently tapping each of us awake. The smell still reminds me of her.
Home is a furry companion. I've always had at least two pets growing up. During my last year of college, I adopted a rescue cat named Milo who has become my around-the-clock sidekick. He drives me absolutely crazy at times, but I realized that my apartment would not feel as lived-in if it wasn't for his tiny footprints covering every corner of the room. The sound of his bell collar trailing at my feet has become one of my favorite sounds.
Home is art. A place never feels complete to me when it has barren walls. I always make sure to hang something up to add color and life to a space.
Home is big, fluffy, white linens. My bed is my sanctuary. The right side is well-worn from years of laying my head there at night. White is such a clean color, and its simplicity puts me at ease and makes me feel like I'm starting every day fresh.
Home is natural light. Morning has become my favorite part of the day. There is nothing better than waking up when the morning light is still soft, brewing a cup of coffee and opening the blinds to let delicate rays of sunshine fall upon everything in the room. Good lighting is magical to me.
Home is family. I may never live in the same city as my family. I've made it a goal of mine to constantly travel and see the world in a new light. But wherever I go, remnants of my family will always come with me. My charm bracelet with dangling tokens given to me by each member, photographs of my brothers and I when we were young, art made by my dad. As long as I carry symbols of my family with me, I'll never be too far away.
What is your definition of home?
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