H – Home

Posted: 15 October 2007 in A-Z, observations, writing
Tags: , ,

H

Today is Blog Action Day.  Although I could say much about the environment, I risk starting a manic moment that will involve the throwing out of every household cleaner we own and, if you’ve seen our bathroom lately, you know that isn’t a good idea.  Between you and me, we’ll consider this Blog Action Day as “action on your blog, for once!” day and as a trade off, I give you this Lifehack post to take you in the right direction.

I’d like this H blog entry to be about H for Hippie, which I sort of am and which my parents certainly were and, boy do I have a lot to say about homemade baby food and diapers, no fast food and no tv, but instead, it’s about Home. 

For you, home is New Jersey, right?  Or that tiny little town of St. Pete’s in upper Minnesota where people hunt ducks and no one is ever angry.  Maybe you call home Berlin, after all, it’s pleasant there and there’s that perfectly preserved stone bench where you used to flee the corporate world and eat your lunch.  But it’s a place, I know.  Or a concept that you cherish.  Mom’s terrible tuna casserole or your sister’s late-eighties punk music.  Some of you are stubbornly thinking that home is “the place where I feel most comfortable” or some other platitude like that just to throw a wrench in the works.  That’s okay, I get what you’re saying.  Home is different for everyone.  But my point is, we have have one – even if it’s a theory you haven’t proved yet. 

I’ve always wanted one place.  I’d even settle for one complicated thought about home.  Instead, I have dozens.  I’m overwhelmed with homes.  I have a city (A particular bakery on Main Street in Evanston, Illinois has served me a particular kind of cookie since I was old enough to chew.  The arching trees, the green grass, the spring tulips, the old houses, the money, the education, the lake, the street names.  They are all part of my home.)  I have a smell or two (fog mostly, in a variety of places.)  A sensation (a humid desert and sharp, warm wind on a desolate mesa).  A set of rivers, some nice and some not (in Bad Tolz, Germany; Xai Xai, Mozambique; Sao Paulo, Brazil) that act like tremendous magnets pulling me to them.  I have feelings (loneliness, independence, love) and unexplained predilections (the deep south, the southwest, the Rift Valley, Kansas prairies) for no reason at all.  That is just a pinch.

So when you ask me where home is, I won’t have trouble lying to you.  I’ll tell you that I was born in Arizona or grew up in Illinois.  I’ll tell you that my family lives in the Southwest, mostly.  I’ll say Virginia.  You certainly don’t expect to hear “on the side of a lake, in a wooden house with big glass windows and a white, fluffy rug and no one around for miles.”  You’d expect me to know which lake, where I bought the rug, how much the house cost.  But they don’t exist.  They are just home.

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