Finding a Home

With every move comes a deep heartache. Though not necessarily painful. But the throb is there, and will always remain. A reminder of the life within a home. The soft parts of me that are left with a fresh imprint. Even when moving in with a knowledge of transiency; with an austere goal of life. 

We are so intimately attached to our homes. “Where are you from?” “Where is your place?” “How many roommates do you have?” “Oh, you’re so close to my favorite café!” “I might be moving into the neighborhood!”. It’s the source of the first spring of conversation, and the delta of the final basin of stories round a fire. We are who and what we plant ourselves around. 

Gift and cost.

7 acres on a rural hill. A brown shoebox resting on a bluff. A sublet room in a college neighborhood. The second floor of a downtown townhouse. A garage full of boxes and old rugs. The main-floor of a castle on the hill. The old convent in a retired Newman Center. These all paint an image of me, trace my thread on a loom. Each pit-stop: a port, leaving a new patch in my quilt of a heart.

I am floating island in a vast sea. Blown onto earth with a providential wind. A landing here and there, long and short, but each a gift. Every landing unique and beautiful, worthy of gasp and joy and love. With a chance to go onto dry ground. Maybe bring aboard others, or some souvenir of my time there. Maybe to plant some seeds, or maybe to take some seeds. But each one changing my little island, my little soul. 

Now let me trade seeds. Toss a rock across and wave to a passing island. Perhaps getting a glimpse of the treasures they have collected too. All the while, building faith and hope for my next landing.

This was a reflection on a recent move I made that weighed heavily on my heart, but not for its own sake. I’ve realized that I had been bottling up all the emotion and heartache from all the moves I’ve made in my life. Probably some latent feelings of my mother selling my childhood home this past summer snuck in as well! Recognizing this has placed a new sympathy in me when seeing friends and strangers on the street move so often, and so forcibly. We look at these small tents on the sidewalk and these large encampments under bridges with apathy, disdain, and disgust. Not completely invalid feelings. It can be a sad, dirty lifestyle. But for the real people, the living souls, occupying these camps, this is home. The feelings for the place may not be the same as from a generations old family home, but they are still present. 

As you move through the city, take note of the haphazard homes around you. Think of your own homes, and combine those memories and sights. Recognize the immense worth of the immortal soul living there. As you see tents come and go, pray for the lost home and pray for the people making a new home. 

Samuel Stucki