Home???

“The ache for home lives in all of us, the safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned.” — Maya Angelou

I couldn’t stop sobbing as I drove back and forth between the RV and my new residence, taking carload after carload of clothes, kitchen items, and random possessions to my new home. When a friend called me a month ago out of the blue, told me she was moving, and offered to rent her house to me for the cost of utilities, I had been excited at the prospect of having a house again and not having to move twice a year. Even the location was desirable. But now, unable to look at the tote that had been designated my nephew’s toybox without breaking down into tears, I was second guessing my decision.

Of course, there was never any real choice in the matter. In the early days of October in Alaska, temperatures at night were dipping into the low 40’s (Fahrenheit) and regardless of where I moved to, I couldn’t stay in the RV for the winter. This was my sixth move in two years. But none of the other moves had affected me quite like this one; in fact, they were a mere blip on the radar. I had gotten pretty good at packing and adjusting my life to a new place. I could only surmise why this move felt more significant and emotionally impactful.

At the end of last fall, I moved out of the RV for the first time. My brother and sister-in-law had me over for dinner the night before I moved out for the winter. We knew I was going to be moving back the following summer, and I would see them intermittently throughout the winter, but that night my 1-year-old nephew pointed at me and called me by name for the first time. I treasured that moment all through the winter until I was back in the RV again, seeing him and his family on an almost daily basis. Even if I didn’t talk to them or see them face-to-face, we were on the same property, and I would see their vehicles in the driveway, the lights on in their house, sometimes their dog or cat running around outside, and I would know they were there. There was something comforting about it.

“I believe that all of our lives we’re looking for home and if we’re really lucky, we find it in someone’s loving arms. I think that’s what life is - coming home.” — Anita Krizzan

I have lived alone for most of the last seven years, and for the past three years, I have also primarily worked alone. For the most part I enjoy the peace and quiet. I spent a lot of my childhood alone, so I am well adjusted to solitude. But there was something nice about having the only family members I feel emotionally close to being physically close to me as well. If I stepped outside the RV in the evening, I could often find my baby brother working on his shop, give him a hand, and have an easy conversation for an hour. Sunday mornings I would lie in bed and listen for my nephew, now nearing his third birthday, and hear his little voice as he walked down the path from their house to their vehicle before heading off to church. So last Sunday morning, knowing I would be packing and moving out that morning, watching them leave for church was a knife in my heart.

I have no plans to move back into the RV at any point, although it remains a good possibility if my housing situation needs to change again. I will not get to see my nephew - and soon-to-be-born nephew - grow up outside my window. Conversations with my brother and sister-in-law will have to be more intentional, planned. Last weekend I had to grieve these changes. I realized that, despite its challenges and shortcomings, the RV had become a place I felt at home, a feeling I had not had in a few years. And almost as quickly as I discovered that feeling, I was losing my sense of home again.

As I carried boxes and totes into my new house, with special attention to my nephew’s toybox, I started thinking about what makes a place feel like home. I’ve been going through boxes of belongings, most of which have been in storage for over a year and a half, deciding what to keep and what I need to let go of so the next time I move is that much easier. I have purchased some new furniture, hoping to bring a piece of my own style and comfort into the space, but the pieces that have arrived so far are still sitting in boxes in the house waiting for me to assemble. Life threw me another curveball as my friend didn’t know the heat in the house was broken when I moved in, so I took a week-long housesitting gig (complete with complimentary dog), so I’d have heat while waiting for the part needed for the repairs to arrive, thus prolonging the moving in process. This is not the first time in the past couple of years that I have slept in three different places in one week. Once again, nothing feels like home.

I wonder if, given time, this new rental will feel like home? As my friend is still storing a lot of her personal property at the house, it feels more like a long-term housesitting gig in some ways, so I question whether I’ll ever feel completely settled there. Most places I’ve lived just feel like a place I’m staying for a while but never feel like home.

This move has led me to deep introspection. What makes a home? Is it the building? The personal space? The people around you? What makes you walk into a space and let your guard down, bringing you a sense of comfort and belonging? What is the difference between a place you live and a place you call home? Should we feel at home with ourselves regardless of where we are, with just a personal sense of belonging in this world? Or is it a need to feel safe, protected by four walls and a secure door, silently looked after by our kind neighbors? Is there something instinctive inside us that lets us know we are where we’re supposed to be? Have I felt so unsettled for the past two years because I knew everywhere I stayed was temporary, or for some deeper reason?

As usual, I don’t have a lot of answers. Maybe everyone’s sense of home is different, personal. I’m sure my therapist will have something to say about my issues with childhood neglect, abandonment, and worthiness, and how that affects my sense of belonging and home. Regardless, I have a roof over my head, and there should be heat in the new house by the end of the week. I remain grateful for every place I’ve had to stay for however long that lasted, knowing not everyone is as fortunate. I hope the next time I move it is to a place I’ll call home and feel it deeply in my soul.

What is your definition of home?