In the last few days I’ve been compelled to ponder the meaning of ‘home’.
Iceland is kind of a home — in the sense that I’m desperately in love with it, and would settle down there in a heartbeat. If I had the resources.
But then I do have a home that I’m quite happy with in Hungary — I’ve written about the apartment I recently moved in to. I like it, which is more than I can say about the majority of places I’ve called something akin to home.
And there’s the ‘home’ that I grew up in. It’s not mine anymore; it’s not anyone’s, unless we count the bank. But still, it’s home in the sense of calling it such, even after all these years that I haven’t lived there.
So where is home, then?
I’ve done the whole vagabond thing; it’s not for me. It was fun traveling around without a destination for a while, and it got old. I still love to travel, but I also value the concept of “coming home.”
If only I had such a place. What I do have is temporary, even if it lasts a year or two or more. I enjoy being there, I made it mine, but it’s still not what I’d wholeheartedly call home.
And when I travel to the place I’d like to call home, returning home is a weird, bittersweet thing.
I understand it’s a work in progress. I can be and usually am patient. And I don’t want to rush “going home.” At the same time, the ephemeral nature of the current situation bugs me — especially under these circumstances.
Anyhow, I’m home, for now. Whatever that means.