We've been chasing it for years. Or, at least I have. At some point, Denise fell in love with the adventure of moving on and gets a rush out of planning "what's next."
For me, though, it's elusive.
It's not a pursuit I'm always aware of. But, each autumn, when leaves start crunching underfoot and the air tastes a bit more crisp, it's unmistakable. An unnamed longing. An ache that's not quite an ache. More of what I imagine it feels like to wake up one morning absent a limb. But, a limb that was never actually attached in the first place. You're aware it's missing.You're just not sure what "it" is.
There's a Welsh word for the feeling - "hiraeth." English has no equivalent. As close as we get is homesickness or longing. Pining for a home that is no longer there, that you can't go back to. Or maybe was never actually there. As one writer put it, "to be where your spirit is."
Take, for instance, this picture from Google maps of the house on Esplanade Ave in Louisville where I lived with my family from age 7 to 19...the longest I've lived anywhere. The siding on the bay window is different. The shrubs between our driveway and the Woodling's are gone, along with pine tree that used to tower over the front door and litter the yard with tiny pine cones. The space occupied by that pile of trash (if my mother saw that!!) used to hold another tree - a maple if I recall correctly. The aerial view from Google shows me there's a pool in the backyard and that the oak that used to cast bizarre shadows from Bert Farmer's backyard into my bedroom has disappeared. This is clearly not where I grew up. Except it is. But, it's not home.I used to rake the leaves in that front yard. I'd pull on my trusty zip-up gray hoodie with the pockets falling off, my Toughskins with the holes in the knees and "buddy" tennis shoes. Grab the rake from the garage and trudge out front.
It would take me hours. Sometimes days. I'd pause to have a catch with Bert. We'd get distracted and move on to pelting each other with pine cones. I'd rake in patterns, writing out my initials or drawing a smiley face. I'd go inside, sip some cocoa and watch some football. I'd shoot some hoops.
Eventually, the leaves would find themselves in an earthy smelling mountain of maroon and gold and brown. I'd flop down on my back on top of that damp pile, drawing its covers over me, up to my neck. There I'd lay. No clue how long. Usually until dark. The act of stuffing those leaves into a couple dozen hefty bags would wait for another day. Perhaps tomorrow. Perhaps not.
I'd imagine shapes in the clouds. I'd wonder about the destination of airplanes far overhead. I'd listen to the leaves crackle in the silence. I'd watch gray squirrels nibble acorns in the middle of the street. I'd nap.
And, I'm pretty sure that if I showed up there this weekend and repeated any of those activities, I'd not be welcome.
That's not home.
No doubt, my longing for home is fed by the number of places I've lived. I'm 7 x 7 years old and have resided in twelve houses/apartments - in addition to the 5 or 6 "temporary" addresses I've occupied for various reasons. I've lived in 7 cities in 5 states. What's strikes me is how completely normal this is. The average American moves 11 1/2 times in their lifetime. We are a nation of vagabonds.
We've enjoyed something about every place we've lived and have been comfortable in most of them. Mom and Pop's Ice Cream Shop down the street from our house in New Albany. Our big cottonwood shaded backyard on Cliff Ave. We've made a number of lifelong friends, some of whom I assume are reading this. Yet, no where has "felt" like home. There's been something missing. I'm perfectly willing to admit the "something" is within me. But, I assure you, it's not a "god" (or anyone else) shaped hole. It's just a hole. Perhaps a hobbit hole, which would make some sense.
It's not that I don't want to be home. It's that I do. As The Head and The Heart sing in Cats & Dogs, "my roots have grown but I don't know where they are." I almost envy the Palestinians and Israelis in this regard. Both are certain of one thing...that land is theirs. Their roots are there. The Palestinians are so sure they're willing to blow themselves up for it. The Israelis are so certain they're willing to blow the Palestinians up for it.
I'm not willing to blow myself or anyone else up for anything. But, I would like to feel so certain a place was my home.
Attachment to a place we call home is something we all yearn for. Maybe that's why we keep moving...we're trying to find that place. I love the story of the Land Rush of April 22, 1889. On that date, thousands of people circled the border of Unassigned Lands in Oklahoma Territory waiting for the signal allowing them to rush in and claim up to 160 acres of land as their very own. Folks came from all over the world for the opportunity.
I'm by no means defending the manner in which the United States...umm..."acquired" this land. But, I can totally fantasize about being part of that rush. Denise and I astride our powerful, newly purchased race horse, Horace. She on the back clenching a rifle to ward off anyone trying to cheat us of our our selected spot. I with the reins in one hand, our stake in the other, ready to leap off and drive it into the ground. The dust swarms into the sky behind us as we blaze our trail. We ascend a rolling golden hill, reach the top and lock eyes on our paradise. Denise pokes at my shoulder to make sure I see what she does. I nod and give Horace an extra nudge. Our 160 acres, with a small wood on the east and a shallow stream flowing right through. The sun would set just behind the next hill. I picture us clearing a lot for our house. Nothing huge. A couple bedrooms, a cozy kitchen with a fireplace. Maybe a loft. Straight out of Little House on the Prairie. We'll plant corn and wheat and potatoes, have a few chickens. Some cows. Whatever we need to sustain ourselves and maybe make a little money. We'll have a couple superior children. It'll be perfect.
As we speed downhill, to our left a Sooner seemingly apparates right next to the stream and raises his stake. Just as he's about to hammer it into the ground the rifle screams in my ear. The shot alarms Horace, who rears onto his back legs. I lose my grip and drop like a rock to the ground, rolling away from the horse's frightened dance. Denise yanks the stake from my hand and jets off toward the stream, her silky hair gliding in the gentle breeze. The Sooner, still hanging on to his stake with his dying hand brings it up one more time to stake his claim. As I rise to my feet, Denise raises one of hers, sending his stake flying helplessly yards out of reach. I jog to her, ignoring the seething pain in my back and the splinter in my palm. Laughing as tears pour down our cheeks, we hold our stake together and drive it into the ground with all our might. This land is ours.
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