On home. (Thanksgiving 2010)
I've recenly become a fan of a game called Minecraft. It's a sandbox game; like so many such games, its goals are open to interpretation. But one experience that most players seem to share is this: within the first 'day' of the game, you build a small shelter to keep out the night, and this shelter becomes your character's first home.
The need for home seems to be a pretty universal human trait, one of those powerful psychological forces that drives us beyond reason-perhaps beyond our own understanding. Throughout history, people have claimed, held, defended, and died for their homes, even when the value of those homes was apparent only to them. In Pennsylvania, the town of Centralia is a town aflame, literally; unchecked coal fires burn beneath the ground, creating the continuous threat of dangerous cave-ins. Yet in spite of the government's best efforts, eleven families have flatly refused to be moved from that place.
I use a place on a map as an example, but home is more of a concept than a coordinate. History is filled with examples of people who weren't rooted to any one spot, yet who were at home within their culture. Various nomadic peoples demonstrate this type of home; they may have mobile dwellings and claim no one piece of land, but they find their home in their family cohesion and the stories of their ancestors. There are also the historically displaced, who may never have set foot in their homeland, yet believe in the connaction to it. There's the Passover wish, "Next Year in Jerusalem," which I'm told refers as much to the ideas embodied by stories of the city throughout history as it does the buildings and people within a certain latitude-longitude boundary today.
Home is not a place; it's a part of one's identity. In fact, I'd say that home is a process, like love; it's a dynamic thing. One finds or builds a home. One lives in one's home. One can wreck a home. But these acts don't entail brick-on-brick construction as much as person-to-person formation-the formation of bonds that create comfort (Latin: intensive prefix on fortis, strong) and familiarity (Latin: familiaris "domestic, of a household"). The most comfortable home in the world can be made alien and terrifying by one act of betrayal; one can find more people at home in a homeless shelter than in a cold two-acre mansion. Indeed, home is a state of mind, not a location; it's where you can drop the shields of human interaction safely and be truly known. And we have such a deep-seated need to be truly known; is it any wonder that people will fight to the death for their concept of home?
In my life, I have had many homes. My first was handed to me on a silver platter; the others were given or grown as I've moved from one stage to another. I am extremely fortunate to have never felt what it means to be homeless. There are hundreds of people over the years who have invited me into the homes they've made, and a few with whom I've forged homes-big psychological castles or tiny, temporary lean-tos against a mad world. If you're reading this, you're probably one of them. I'm thankful that you're there, and I hope you know that if you ever need a place to crash, I'm here for you.
Take care,
Mark
The need for home seems to be a pretty universal human trait, one of those powerful psychological forces that drives us beyond reason-perhaps beyond our own understanding. Throughout history, people have claimed, held, defended, and died for their homes, even when the value of those homes was apparent only to them. In Pennsylvania, the town of Centralia is a town aflame, literally; unchecked coal fires burn beneath the ground, creating the continuous threat of dangerous cave-ins. Yet in spite of the government's best efforts, eleven families have flatly refused to be moved from that place.
I use a place on a map as an example, but home is more of a concept than a coordinate. History is filled with examples of people who weren't rooted to any one spot, yet who were at home within their culture. Various nomadic peoples demonstrate this type of home; they may have mobile dwellings and claim no one piece of land, but they find their home in their family cohesion and the stories of their ancestors. There are also the historically displaced, who may never have set foot in their homeland, yet believe in the connaction to it. There's the Passover wish, "Next Year in Jerusalem," which I'm told refers as much to the ideas embodied by stories of the city throughout history as it does the buildings and people within a certain latitude-longitude boundary today.
Home is not a place; it's a part of one's identity. In fact, I'd say that home is a process, like love; it's a dynamic thing. One finds or builds a home. One lives in one's home. One can wreck a home. But these acts don't entail brick-on-brick construction as much as person-to-person formation-the formation of bonds that create comfort (Latin: intensive prefix on fortis, strong) and familiarity (Latin: familiaris "domestic, of a household"). The most comfortable home in the world can be made alien and terrifying by one act of betrayal; one can find more people at home in a homeless shelter than in a cold two-acre mansion. Indeed, home is a state of mind, not a location; it's where you can drop the shields of human interaction safely and be truly known. And we have such a deep-seated need to be truly known; is it any wonder that people will fight to the death for their concept of home?
In my life, I have had many homes. My first was handed to me on a silver platter; the others were given or grown as I've moved from one stage to another. I am extremely fortunate to have never felt what it means to be homeless. There are hundreds of people over the years who have invited me into the homes they've made, and a few with whom I've forged homes-big psychological castles or tiny, temporary lean-tos against a mad world. If you're reading this, you're probably one of them. I'm thankful that you're there, and I hope you know that if you ever need a place to crash, I'm here for you.
Take care,
Mark