Home
I live off suitcases. My schedule permits me to stay at one of 'my places' a couple of days at a time. I actually carry a 'food bag' with me wherever I go, with a coffee heater, coffee (of course), oatmeal, cookies, etc., to keep me from being hungry on the road, or when I arrive late at a destination. It is the job, and I have to deal with that. The only time I am able to rest (the hours spent sleeping in the car, not counted) is when I am home.
Where exactly is 'home', in the true sense of the word? It has gotten to a point in my life where I do not believe it is where your name is on the title of a property, or where there are four walls erected to support a roof. 'Home is where the heart is', they say. I guess that is true. I am at home when I am with my son, in his warm embrace alongside foot tickles and eerie whispers to scare the hell out of me (it works all the time Aidan). I am home when I am up in my daughter's company in Baguio, even for just short dinners here and there, where we get to talk about her pressures and pleasures at her new job, where we have coffee and adult conversations. I am home when I am at my rented place where I set up a small office, where I am able to move from one place to another in the cluttered spaces with my three phones and my tablet in hand. I am home when I have hefty dinners of crab and shrimps I eat with my bare hands and enjoy after-dinner conversations with friends (very long conversations, literally). I am home when I am able to breathe normally, enjoy my personal space, write blogs anytime I have the inspiration, sleep up to when I want, eat what is in the fridge (whatever, from bread stored in there for ages it has ceased to be bread, or mangoes and bananas starting to be enjoyed more by fruitflies rather than me).
It is interesting how people perceive 'home', or 'coming home' for that matter. It saddens me that there are those who say you are home where your family is, such that you have no reason to 'come home', for example, to where you were born, because, well, your family is already living in a 'home' abroad. Given the feelings I have of 'home', maybe that is correct. Still, I am disturbed by the view that one does not any reason to come home, to this place where one was born in. I have not been abroad except once, and it was just for a well-deserved respite from my job, and spent it with my kids. I have not lived anywhere else except in this country. So perhaps I am no expert here. I, however, have family abroad, who say that given the chance to start again, oh they would embrace the chance. If only they were handed that chance in a silver platter. I have always had this notion that living abroad was exciting and need-free. Maybe for some needs.
While it is most important to have your sense of 'being', hence, your 'home' hedged upon those who take the greatest spaces in your heart, I strongly believe in 'coming home' to where it all began. Where you started this journey called life.
Where I had my first baby steps. Where I tasted my first ice cream. Where I learned how to play the piano. Where I was forced to ride a jeepney. Where the tricyles are so freaking small, you can barely breathe and where the drivers I need to argue with for the fare. Where I was taught to smile and speak and campaign and help. Where I had my first taste of a job, my first pay envelope. Where I learned how to write. And write all the time. Where I worked with people who embraced me, whether sincere or not.
Is it not beautiful to have these thoughts in mind? That, in the end, no matter how forward
-looking we all are for we have resigned ourselves to it-is-just-the-way-it-is, we have our roots. We have this treasure chest of memories in black and white photos, cassette tapes and betamax, VCD; and rusty pipes, of the smell of cat poop around the corner, or a gecko making that terrible noise somewhere, or a dog named 'Winky' peeing on the floor mats. Of a cat harassing you for food. Of leaking faucets, or no water, of dust and of heat. Oh and that sweet smell of banana leaves burning over the charcoal heat in clay ovens set up in front of churches on Sundays, to sell rice cakes. I got a whiff of that today. Heavenly. I will go home to those, anytime. If only life was that simple.
Where exactly is 'home', in the true sense of the word? It has gotten to a point in my life where I do not believe it is where your name is on the title of a property, or where there are four walls erected to support a roof. 'Home is where the heart is', they say. I guess that is true. I am at home when I am with my son, in his warm embrace alongside foot tickles and eerie whispers to scare the hell out of me (it works all the time Aidan). I am home when I am up in my daughter's company in Baguio, even for just short dinners here and there, where we get to talk about her pressures and pleasures at her new job, where we have coffee and adult conversations. I am home when I am at my rented place where I set up a small office, where I am able to move from one place to another in the cluttered spaces with my three phones and my tablet in hand. I am home when I have hefty dinners of crab and shrimps I eat with my bare hands and enjoy after-dinner conversations with friends (very long conversations, literally). I am home when I am able to breathe normally, enjoy my personal space, write blogs anytime I have the inspiration, sleep up to when I want, eat what is in the fridge (whatever, from bread stored in there for ages it has ceased to be bread, or mangoes and bananas starting to be enjoyed more by fruitflies rather than me).
It is interesting how people perceive 'home', or 'coming home' for that matter. It saddens me that there are those who say you are home where your family is, such that you have no reason to 'come home', for example, to where you were born, because, well, your family is already living in a 'home' abroad. Given the feelings I have of 'home', maybe that is correct. Still, I am disturbed by the view that one does not any reason to come home, to this place where one was born in. I have not been abroad except once, and it was just for a well-deserved respite from my job, and spent it with my kids. I have not lived anywhere else except in this country. So perhaps I am no expert here. I, however, have family abroad, who say that given the chance to start again, oh they would embrace the chance. If only they were handed that chance in a silver platter. I have always had this notion that living abroad was exciting and need-free. Maybe for some needs.
While it is most important to have your sense of 'being', hence, your 'home' hedged upon those who take the greatest spaces in your heart, I strongly believe in 'coming home' to where it all began. Where you started this journey called life.
Where I had my first baby steps. Where I tasted my first ice cream. Where I learned how to play the piano. Where I was forced to ride a jeepney. Where the tricyles are so freaking small, you can barely breathe and where the drivers I need to argue with for the fare. Where I was taught to smile and speak and campaign and help. Where I had my first taste of a job, my first pay envelope. Where I learned how to write. And write all the time. Where I worked with people who embraced me, whether sincere or not.
Is it not beautiful to have these thoughts in mind? That, in the end, no matter how forward
-looking we all are for we have resigned ourselves to it-is-just-the-way-it-is, we have our roots. We have this treasure chest of memories in black and white photos, cassette tapes and betamax, VCD; and rusty pipes, of the smell of cat poop around the corner, or a gecko making that terrible noise somewhere, or a dog named 'Winky' peeing on the floor mats. Of a cat harassing you for food. Of leaking faucets, or no water, of dust and of heat. Oh and that sweet smell of banana leaves burning over the charcoal heat in clay ovens set up in front of churches on Sundays, to sell rice cakes. I got a whiff of that today. Heavenly. I will go home to those, anytime. If only life was that simple.
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