Tuesday, May 12, 2015

Home is where my stuff is

Home. What is home? About one month ago my husband and I left our old home for our new home.
My home is now in Sunnyvale. But I also go home to Sweden every year, and I stay for a few weeks before I return home to California.

My childhood home is still very much my home, until I stay there for an extended period of time and eventually I will get home sick. In many ways my husband is my home, but when we leave our home to visit other places, I feel more like a girl traveling with her favorite teddy, than a snail carrying its home on its back. Superficially, home can be where I sleep that night, but that home is within a certain context such as "go home to the hotel".

As significant as one's home is, it also abruptly changes nature as soon as one decides to leave. I'm currently residing in my twelfth home, seventh since moving away from my parents. Some of my former homes are more sentimental to me than others, but no place retained the value it once had.

While packing and unpacking our newest home, it got me thinking. I think my true home is were my stuff is. It's not as superficial as it sounds. Because it's not just stuff, it's the fact that my stuff exist because I acquired every singel one of them (by myself or by proxy). Also, I've made deliberate decisions on where I've placed them. Everything I own is where it is because I put it there, so nothing can really ever be out of place. And I think that's the answer to the question. Home is a place where nothing is out of place. It's a place were things are exactly how you decided for them to be. Home is a place where nothing can be wrong, it is always right, because it is yours.

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