Home. Memories. All things familiar.

There is something about our earliest memories, and the place in which we grew up that is not like any other place, and that will never be replaced, no matter where you go in the world. At high school, we did an experiment on imprinting. We each got a chick to take home, and we were to give it particular things: warmth, food, and water. The experiment was meant to prove that some animals become attached to something that provides these elemental needs, and subsequently regards that something as its ‘mother’. My chick floundered. It was not very healthy coming out of its egg, and no amount of food and warmth was able to keep it from expiring a few days later. My experiment failed – or died – but that is a whole other story that has nothing much to do with themes of home.

My point about the chick, though was that there are certain things and places in our lives, which are introduced at a pivotal time, and which become part of our emotional DNA. When I travel to the places of my childhood, there is something so infinitely familiar about the landscapes, I cannot help but feel at home. And yet, though I have lived in the place I reside now (the city, not the actual house) for forty years, it still feels like an alien landscape. Much as I love where I live – I think it’s the most fabulous city! – I cannot help but feel constantly displaced. I wish I could change that feeling, but I can’t.

And this brings to the fore notions of belonging. Why is it so important to belong? For me, though I don’t naturally get a feeling of belonging from my place of residence, it is a conscious choice I have made. I choose to – in fact, demand – to belong. It’s a matter of entitlement. I am entitled to belong, and I will therefore grab that right with both hands.

Though the  place where I was imprinted should be where I feel a sense of belonging, it actually isn’t – can’t be – anymore. Because I have been away too long. Too many things have happened in the time that’s elapsed. Too many other people have owned that space and know it far more intimately than I ever will now. I have not put in the time, and they have. I am therefore on the outer, and that does not make me feel a sense of belonging.

But the place that feels like home still serves an important purpose. It is the place I turn to in times of change, when I feel I need to touch base with myself, and most importantly, to feel connected to my childhood once again. Going home; coming home; being home. A time for truths and for taking stock of life. A time to face up to difficult moments. Perhaps the place where new phases begin.

Characters in novels often go home in order to come full circle on their inner – and/or outer – journeys. Coming home means getting back in touch with your roots, in the form of old friends, places, and objects. Things that anchor us and bring us back to our fundamentals.