“Daddy, I want to go home” says the tired child.
Home for that child is where her parents live.
For others, home is a village, a town, a county, a country. It’s a community, a company, or an organisation. It’s where they were born and raised.
Home might be where your family is originally from. Or perhaps, where you’re raising your own family.
For travellers, vagabonds and other restless explorers, wherever they happen to be is where they call home.
Some never have a home. Others do, but they reject it or are rejected from it.
Home could be somewhere you own, or somewhere that is your space, somewhere that is your own private sliver of the universe.
I think of home as a place I never grow tired of.
The common thread through all these different places is that the people who call them home all feel like they belong there. They feel an indefinable, visceral connection to that place.
Not Quite What I was Planning is a book of six-word autobiographies. There are two which are of interest here. First:
“Saw the world; now where’s home?”
They illustrate a point. We cannot know our home, where we truly belong, until we leave it. Only through detachment and distance can we recognise the places (and the people) that held, and continue to hold, something special for us.
What does “home” mean to you?