Returning home.
What is “home”? Is it a structure? A place? A person? Is home you? A state of being? The things you own?
I recently returned from a 2 week trip to Europe, which included a WW2 jeeping expedition through sites that broke me wide open. My Italian Grandfather, Nonno, was a second round US draftee and we retraced some of his steps to face his horrific and heroic path of survival. While there we kept seeing Swallows everywhere.
The Swallow represents strength, hope, and a safe return home. How fitting that the land where my grandfather felt the most displaced and traumatized is full of playful birds reminding us of where we’ve come from and what is waiting for us.
The integration back “home” from this trip was particularly disorienting. Gaps in timelines were filled. Holes in our hearts began to mend. But coming back home was confusing. It was not the same place that I had left. I was not the same person. My things were all still there, right where I had left them. Including some old food in the fridge that I really wish I had thrown away prior. But as I looked around, I was met with a different sense of “home”.
This time, it was less about what was owned and accumulated and more about the relationship to my life. “Home” is the accumulation of experiences and journeys that have led me to right now and how I feel about myself. “Home” is the way I orient to my life. “Home” is the anchor that I have created through the chaos of my past. It’s what I can count on in myself now.
My grandfather came home from war and while there weren’t formal diagnosis at the time, he showed signs of cPTSD and PTSD. “Home” for him was a distant memory. Or maybe “home” became the only thing that was keeping him tethered while he navigated the aftermath of war.
I have a tattoo on my heart of a 3 black arches that look like a rainbow. This symbol represents home for me. I got it while living from my RV, in search for a place that felt like home. What I have uncovered on this quest is that no matter the material possessions I have or don’t have. Whatever has stayed or had to go. My relationship to myself is the thing that makes something feel like home or not. My ability to forgive myself, to be honest with myself, to believe in myself — is the most stable “home” I have found or built yet.
Returning home is an invitation back to myself.
When is the last time you knocked on your own door and welcomed yourself back home?