On this Thanksgiving morning, 2012, I cannot stop thinking about all those left homeless in the New York/New Jersey area. I am ambivalent about the “home for the holidays” atmosphere this season brings. I find my idea of home is challenged. What is home?
This is Home
On this spinning, orbiting planet, home is anchored by gravity. Its incessant pull makes it hard to wander too far from earth’s dense core. This is home. So, we all have a notion of home like we all have a heartbeat, but, unlike the singular purpose of the beating heart, home has a multitude of meanings.
Home can be a place, a structure: cement, bricks, wood even the thin metal sheets erected haphazardly in the South African ghetto. We go to this place for sustenance—to eat, to rest before we venture out again. Home is comfort, a place of dreams and love and sex. Home is acceptance and family except when it is abuse and dysfunction.
At night, in the darkness, home has no boundaries, no gravity. We can get lost flying through galaxies into the lacy depths of a Milky Way. Then, our home is the universe.