I’m thinking hard about this one. Having lived in about 24 different “homes” over the years, I never had a fixed abode, that abiding reference point that a place one has lived in for decades provides. My parents moved five times during their marriage, and my grandparents about the same, so no single physical location evokes home for me. I do feel “home” often enough, but the place I’m in when I’m feeling that way might be my current residence, or it could belong to someone else.
Perhaps I feel most at home when I leave the building where I live and lose myself somewhere outdoors. The surroundings may be grand or they may be plain, but when I’m outside, absorbed in what I see and hear and smell and feel, the separate sense of myself as “I” can disappear. And that’s Home.
Leaving the building called “home” to find Home outdoors, at an early age.
A rural intersection in North Carolina – at that moment it felt like home to me.
Staten Island’s industrial shoreline – chain link fence, railroad tracks, electrical wires, cranes…I was home free when I took this picture, inspired by the possibilities of color and patterns and lost into the rawness of the moment.
A road somewhere in New York curves out of view…follow it, and maybe I’ll be Home.
Other notions of home can be found here: