![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
fleetfoot77.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
animal_quillsMy take on Home.
I have not found it yet.
One may ask, "Why have you not come across a place to stay? Yet, you have traveled so far and wide?"
I have not found it yet.
But whether this it is an actual place rather than a feeling, I am not sure.
I have lived in a country where the wind was chillingly cold, and where it would be day until two in the morning. I love the cold. I love a refreshingly sunny summer with chilling breezes to keep you from sweating too much. I also take pleasure in being bundled up in many coats, putting on my wellies, and taking a walk outside in the dirty slush and meltwater puddles. It is my childhood, and for a time when I did not know better, home.
I have lived in a country where it was refreshing to walk into a freezing 16 degree celsius cold store, and where it sometimes rained up to your ankles and felt as if you were in the shower fully dressed. I did not particularly like the gusts of warm humidness that billowed into our faces when we walked outside, or the wet stickiness felt after doing any form of excersise. But I also relished the feeling of diving into heavenly tropical blues of the swimming pool and later on at seven o'clock, one of the only escapes from the heat. It was time of growing up, and one of drastic change.
I have visited a country where it is dry in winter, and burningly hot. Dry climates and warm winds carried tender fragrances of eucalyptus trees and other native plants to us in the late afternoons we spent sitting around. The ground seemed redder than usual, and our surroundings unusually tropical with the green birds and their new calls. We would laze around during the afternoon, enjoying the few short moments in the desert when it is not too hot and not too cold. The people were amazingly open, and we made it into the summer christmas of a lifetime. Would I call this home? Perhaps only a holiday, I think.
Another summer getaway we've been escaping too for the past many years, is in the south. A mediterranean climate, dry, but just pleasurable enough that one can laze about in a hammac after the scorching noon sun leaves. Where all day long topless ladies reclining are liberally dotted all over the beach, and where sometimes, during the occasional storm, me and much older cousin Jean-se go dancing in the waves and nets of ominous seaweed. Where horses snort and sniffle, but take us around and around into eucalyptus and golden grasses. Where the cigales play all afternoon, and the mosquitoes hum and shiver in your ear, waiting for the late evening aperitif. It is also a place that smells of dry crumbling earth and wet stone tiles ever time the rain comes and goes. I have very nearly grown up in this place, visiting relatives ever summer since before I could even walk. It is a place of dreams and fond memories, for the most part.
In my dreams, I walk through darkness and colours with fox, northern european forests, dusty dry australian brush, southern marseille, humid singapore, the ochre of californian soil, cool green grass of scotland, and many many other places. And you still pester me with this question? Where is Home?
Home is feelings of love in my heart. (It isn't even family, whom I've grown too unattached to anything and anyone to belong truly a part of. Even most friendship feels like a passing interest to my mind..) Home is when I wake up safely in my warm bed on a lazy Saturday afternoon, when I stand on the top of a mountain and let cool breezes whip and my face, when I let my cat crawl over my face and purr gently into my ear... Home is normalcy, or, as long as it will last.
I have not found it yet.
One may ask, "Why have you not come across a place to stay? Yet, you have traveled so far and wide?"
I have not found it yet.
But whether this it is an actual place rather than a feeling, I am not sure.
I have lived in a country where the wind was chillingly cold, and where it would be day until two in the morning. I love the cold. I love a refreshingly sunny summer with chilling breezes to keep you from sweating too much. I also take pleasure in being bundled up in many coats, putting on my wellies, and taking a walk outside in the dirty slush and meltwater puddles. It is my childhood, and for a time when I did not know better, home.
I have lived in a country where it was refreshing to walk into a freezing 16 degree celsius cold store, and where it sometimes rained up to your ankles and felt as if you were in the shower fully dressed. I did not particularly like the gusts of warm humidness that billowed into our faces when we walked outside, or the wet stickiness felt after doing any form of excersise. But I also relished the feeling of diving into heavenly tropical blues of the swimming pool and later on at seven o'clock, one of the only escapes from the heat. It was time of growing up, and one of drastic change.
I have visited a country where it is dry in winter, and burningly hot. Dry climates and warm winds carried tender fragrances of eucalyptus trees and other native plants to us in the late afternoons we spent sitting around. The ground seemed redder than usual, and our surroundings unusually tropical with the green birds and their new calls. We would laze around during the afternoon, enjoying the few short moments in the desert when it is not too hot and not too cold. The people were amazingly open, and we made it into the summer christmas of a lifetime. Would I call this home? Perhaps only a holiday, I think.
Another summer getaway we've been escaping too for the past many years, is in the south. A mediterranean climate, dry, but just pleasurable enough that one can laze about in a hammac after the scorching noon sun leaves. Where all day long topless ladies reclining are liberally dotted all over the beach, and where sometimes, during the occasional storm, me and much older cousin Jean-se go dancing in the waves and nets of ominous seaweed. Where horses snort and sniffle, but take us around and around into eucalyptus and golden grasses. Where the cigales play all afternoon, and the mosquitoes hum and shiver in your ear, waiting for the late evening aperitif. It is also a place that smells of dry crumbling earth and wet stone tiles ever time the rain comes and goes. I have very nearly grown up in this place, visiting relatives ever summer since before I could even walk. It is a place of dreams and fond memories, for the most part.
In my dreams, I walk through darkness and colours with fox, northern european forests, dusty dry australian brush, southern marseille, humid singapore, the ochre of californian soil, cool green grass of scotland, and many many other places. And you still pester me with this question? Where is Home?
Home is feelings of love in my heart. (It isn't even family, whom I've grown too unattached to anything and anyone to belong truly a part of. Even most friendship feels like a passing interest to my mind..) Home is when I wake up safely in my warm bed on a lazy Saturday afternoon, when I stand on the top of a mountain and let cool breezes whip and my face, when I let my cat crawl over my face and purr gently into my ear... Home is normalcy, or, as long as it will last.
no subject
Date: 2007-02-18 11:58 am (UTC)You've been to wonderful places.
I like whiffing the feeling of travels and home and love through your words.
no subject
Date: 2007-02-18 08:55 pm (UTC)When I was younger I'd hide under the bedsheets, even though it was very warm, and pray that the mosquitoes wouldn't sneak under and bite me. That is, until my grandmother decided to invest in mosquito repellent. ;)
no subject
Date: 2007-02-19 12:54 am (UTC)