- Etymology:
- Middle English hom, from Old English hām village, home; akin to Old High German heimšeima family, servants, Sanskrit kṣema habitable, kṣeti he dwells, Greek ktizein to inhabit home, Lithuanian
- Date:
- before 12th century
1 a: one's place of residence : domicile b: house2: the social unit formed by a family living together3 a: a familiar or usual setting : congenial environment ; also : the focus of one's domestic attention <home is where the heart is> b: habitat4 a: a place of origin home to spawn> ; also : one's own country home and abroad> b: headquarters 2 <home of the dance company>5: an establishment providing residence and care for people with special needs <homes for the elderly>6: the objective in various games ; especially : home plate
— at home
1: relaxed and comfortable : at ease at home on the stage> 2: in harmony with the surroundings3:: knowledgeable on familiar ground at home in their subject fields>
I grew up carrying luggage.
In near constant motion I would move from family member to family member.
Partly out of convenience to my parents who were all but twenty when I was born, and partly out of a odd
juvenile form of wanderlust. I asked to move. I asked relatives if I could come for extended visits.
I traveled good distances in the summers. From age three until around twelve I was nomadic.
Or maybe I was a tourist. Homeless.
Being considerably older than three years old now, I am increasingly aware of the effects of my childhood affinity for travel has had on my later years. I grew up away from my parents. Thousands of miles away sometimes. I crossed a sea and began to speak differently from them, developed a palate unknown to my siblings, I grew to be comforted by foreign objects and cultural projections. A little american-born european.
When I came home the adjustment was always a struggle. Things would not work the same way, from door knobs to accepted behaviours. Words changed. People regarded me differently. Being a mixed race child in the eighties who had a continental accent and artistic tendencies was not so common. More so in the small North Carolina towns my mum began to live in with my step-father, who made it clear he disaproved of both me and my upbringing. Thus I never felt at home.
Home later came to be New Mexico. And now New Orleans, a place that while maintaining a absolute sense of United States bravado also recalls the cool grandeur of childhood landscapes.
I am still as displaced though. Having chosen the work that I do makes me even more of a vagabond, traveling from job to job with only school as an anchor. Will I ever buy a house? Will I ever plant a garden? Will I ever take root?
Eventually I imagine I have to. Right? Eventually you find a spot that is a fit and you find that you are quite comfortable. You have a job that is not in danger of becoming obsolete or does not end in six weeks, a house that you like quite well and begin melding yourself with it. Buying furrniture that is not partly disposeable or easily
resold.
Eventually I might get there, but being a little homeless has not worked out terribly for me. I suppose it makes me even more a world citizen not to be tied to one local, ventureing out on vacations and always returning to the same spot. Which sounds fantastic, I would very muck love to settle down with someone and plan exotic getaways. But for some one who has lived their life as an exotic getaway that can be a little claustrophobic.
Maybe I need to live aboard an areoplane, or a ship. But how does one garden on a plane?
(post suggested by Cassien G.)
I grew up carrying luggage.
In near constant motion I would move from family member to family member.
Partly out of convenience to my parents who were all but twenty when I was born, and partly out of a odd
juvenile form of wanderlust. I asked to move. I asked relatives if I could come for extended visits.
I traveled good distances in the summers. From age three until around twelve I was nomadic.
Or maybe I was a tourist. Homeless.
Being considerably older than three years old now, I am increasingly aware of the effects of my childhood affinity for travel has had on my later years. I grew up away from my parents. Thousands of miles away sometimes. I crossed a sea and began to speak differently from them, developed a palate unknown to my siblings, I grew to be comforted by foreign objects and cultural projections. A little american-born european.
When I came home the adjustment was always a struggle. Things would not work the same way, from door knobs to accepted behaviours. Words changed. People regarded me differently. Being a mixed race child in the eighties who had a continental accent and artistic tendencies was not so common. More so in the small North Carolina towns my mum began to live in with my step-father, who made it clear he disaproved of both me and my upbringing. Thus I never felt at home.
Home later came to be New Mexico. And now New Orleans, a place that while maintaining a absolute sense of United States bravado also recalls the cool grandeur of childhood landscapes.
I am still as displaced though. Having chosen the work that I do makes me even more of a vagabond, traveling from job to job with only school as an anchor. Will I ever buy a house? Will I ever plant a garden? Will I ever take root?
Eventually I imagine I have to. Right? Eventually you find a spot that is a fit and you find that you are quite comfortable. You have a job that is not in danger of becoming obsolete or does not end in six weeks, a house that you like quite well and begin melding yourself with it. Buying furrniture that is not partly disposeable or easily
resold.
Eventually I might get there, but being a little homeless has not worked out terribly for me. I suppose it makes me even more a world citizen not to be tied to one local, ventureing out on vacations and always returning to the same spot. Which sounds fantastic, I would very muck love to settle down with someone and plan exotic getaways. But for some one who has lived their life as an exotic getaway that can be a little claustrophobic.
Maybe I need to live aboard an areoplane, or a ship. But how does one garden on a plane?
(post suggested by Cassien G.)
1 comment:
Girl, don't even think of settling down you're way too young and way too talented to "settle" for that life as of yet. Get your ass out there go on a European trip, aerlingus has some great NYC-Europe destination rates! I send you positive energy mec!
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