I was born only a few miles from the house I grew up in, the house my parents lived in my whole adult life, the house in which my Father died. As I’ve said, it’s what I truly thought of as home. My Mother sold it about 10 months before she died, about 5 months after my Father died.
I wanted that sense of security for K. I could see the cozy house’s lights from the room in hospital where K was born. It was always her home, even after I moved to the Cottage and then to the Bungalow. Even after she went 1,000 miles away to college, and then 500 miles away to start her grown-up life.
I have often talked with her about the concept of home. Now my heart breaks that she has suffered this loss of home as a place, a concept, and a heart, just as I have now done twice. She’s too young for this loss.
Several sisters of my heart were raised differently from me, being from military families. They moved often and far. One has wondered why I left so many things I treasured in the cozy house. She was not attached to much and was ready to pick up and move when the family needed to, never leaving anything behind. Another has found herself more attached to things since she had to pick up stakes so often.
My Mother was the child of a somewhat nomadic father, and she loved moving. She loved the new towns, new schools, new people. Her lack of attachment to things, as I discussed yesterday, was also most obvious to me by the fact that she sold her wedding dress. She didn’t think about the daughter she might have someday who might want it. She did save a silk chiffon scarf that she wore on her wedding day, that I wore on mine, that is now ashes.
My Father moved, but most of it was for education. Kentucky, Connecticut, New York, Illinois, and finally, North Carolina, where my childhood house was the first and only house he bought. But despite all those moves, he had a family home to go back to in West Virginia, where his Mother was born and lived until she could no longer live alone, which was in her mid-80s. While we never discussed it, I think he had the same concept of home that I did.
Of course, all of this is completely contradictory to the me that I know that wants to travel until the end of my days and beyond. Or is it? Does my wandering soul just need to know that there is a home, a sanctuary to return to? I welcome your comments here. They help deepen my thoughts about this topic that has been a lifelong wonderment.

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February 9, 2022 at 8:08 pm
catherinekreutzer1
I recently had a discussion with two of my siblings and was surprised to find that they have had the same struggle of feeling home-less as I have had, as though the desire for and need for a sense of truly being at home continues to evade our lived experience. Like you, I find joy in wandering, and yet, paradoxically have had this longing for home, for a deep connection to a specific place, that will not quite be filled. It’s frustrating and sometimes grieves me. I think we have often, in our society, detached ourselves from place in an unhealthy way. There’s a reason that the loss of home is so deeply grieved, because being connected to a place (particularly the places we mark with our lives and histories) are vital to our well-being. Your experience of this seems exactly as it should be, deeply sad, because this place mattered so much for you and your family.
February 10, 2022 at 8:00 am
Seasweetie
Thank you for you insights, Catherine. It’s oddly reassuring to know I’m not alone in this paradox of wandering and yearning for home. While it’s absolutely not philosophical and springs from the bizarre source of the movie/musical “Paint Your Wagon”, the song “Born Under a Wandering Star” has long been an excellent representation of my feelings.