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Abstract

In my moments of nostalgia, I’ve driven back to visit some of these houses but it doesn't feel like home.The paint color has changed or the landscaping is done differently. It’s definitely not my family’s car sitting on the driveway and the whole experience is a bit jarring.Current reality does not align with the images I have in my mind.I’ve also been to a lot of schools — seven different schools in seven consecutive years. Some of these schools mean more to me than others and there’s one in particular, nestled deep in the suburbs of another country, that I feel most shaped me into the person I am today.The last time I had a chance to visit this school, I barely recognized it. The school used to mark the end of the road. But now, the road continues on, there are shopping plazas galore and, as urban sprawl progresses, so many new neighborhoods popping up left, right, and center.The name of the school is still the same and if I block out enough of the surroundings, I can almost envision the school I think back on so fondly.But it’s not my school anymore and it’s definitely not home.<h2 id="7f67">Is my heart with a time?</h2>If my heart is attached to memories of a place rather than the place itself, perhaps my heart is with a certain time.A certain period of time that can be fondly reflected on through the lens of nostalgia. These rose-colored glasses buff away the imperfections. Mountains resume their places as molehills and even the mundane becomes cherished.Because you can never go back. The experience will never be the same again and this fleeting truth makes you miss it all the more— the place and all that it’s come to symbolize and th

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e person you were at that specific moment in time.I may think back fondly on these times and it may bring up warm feelings associated with home, but I don’t want my heart or my home to be in an elusive place that I can never return to.<h2 id="46f3">My heart is my own</h2>I think my heart is my own. It might get occasionally battered or bruised but it’s mine to hold, mine to give away, and mine to share as I please.My heart is in multiple pieces — little bits given to other people, places, and times. I am leaving a trail of invisible bread crumbs as I go through life.And yet, my heart still feels whole and full.I do not feel like I have less of a heart for all that I have shared. Perhaps this is similar to how a candle loses nothing by lighting another or how sharing happiness with others does not dilute the sentiment.Our hearts are deep wells of love, emotion, and connection. Our ability to love many things is not a math equation. We are capable of loving more without our existing loves diminishing.<h2 id="d909">So where is my home?</h2>If my heart is my own and the home is where the heart is, then does this make me my own home?Perhaps the wisdom of this saying alludes to our ability to make any person, place, or time our home. Home can be many splendid things all at the same time.It can be the family you were born into and the family you choose. It can be the house you grew up in and any place that you feel a strong connection to. It can even be an ethereal moment caught in a place and time that only exists in your mind, but that doesn’t make it less of a home.Because home is where the heart is.</article></body>

Home Is Where The Heart Is

But where is my heart?

They say that home is where the heart is.

But to these wise souls, I’d like to ask one question — where is my heart?

Is my heart with someone?

Perhaps my heart resides with the family that I grew up with — my parents and my brother.

A bond strengthened by blood, sweat, tears, and diaper changes. A childhood filled with birthday cakes and piano lessons. A household filled with the scent of homecooked meals.

Or perhaps my heart is with the new family that I’m growing— with my husband and my dog.

A choice made between two people to form a new life together. A new family that’s creating traditions as they discover what works and doesn’t work for them. A realization that we’re the adults now.

And what about the family that I choose —my friends?

The ones who are always willing to lend a helping hand. The ones who drop you off at the airport and house sit for you while you’re away. The ones that you’ve celebrated all the “not big” holidays with because no one has any other family in town.

Is my heart with a place?

Perhaps my heart has settled into a place — a childhood house, a neighborhood community, or even a school.

I’ve moved around a fair bit so I conjure up memories of multiple childhood houses. In my moments of nostalgia, I’ve driven back to visit some of these houses but it doesn't feel like home.

The paint color has changed or the landscaping is done differently. It’s definitely not my family’s car sitting on the driveway and the whole experience is a bit jarring.

Current reality does not align with the images I have in my mind.

I’ve also been to a lot of schools — seven different schools in seven consecutive years. Some of these schools mean more to me than others and there’s one in particular, nestled deep in the suburbs of another country, that I feel most shaped me into the person I am today.

The last time I had a chance to visit this school, I barely recognized it. The school used to mark the end of the road. But now, the road continues on, there are shopping plazas galore and, as urban sprawl progresses, so many new neighborhoods popping up left, right, and center.

The name of the school is still the same and if I block out enough of the surroundings, I can almost envision the school I think back on so fondly.

But it’s not my school anymore and it’s definitely not home.

Is my heart with a time?

If my heart is attached to memories of a place rather than the place itself, perhaps my heart is with a certain time.

A certain period of time that can be fondly reflected on through the lens of nostalgia. These rose-colored glasses buff away the imperfections. Mountains resume their places as molehills and even the mundane becomes cherished.

Because you can never go back. The experience will never be the same again and this fleeting truth makes you miss it all the more— the place and all that it’s come to symbolize and the person you were at that specific moment in time.

I may think back fondly on these times and it may bring up warm feelings associated with home, but I don’t want my heart or my home to be in an elusive place that I can never return to.

My heart is my own

I think my heart is my own. It might get occasionally battered or bruised but it’s mine to hold, mine to give away, and mine to share as I please.

My heart is in multiple pieces — little bits given to other people, places, and times. I am leaving a trail of invisible bread crumbs as I go through life.

And yet, my heart still feels whole and full.

I do not feel like I have less of a heart for all that I have shared. Perhaps this is similar to how a candle loses nothing by lighting another or how sharing happiness with others does not dilute the sentiment.

Our hearts are deep wells of love, emotion, and connection. Our ability to love many things is not a math equation. We are capable of loving more without our existing loves diminishing.

So where is my home?

If my heart is my own and the home is where the heart is, then does this make me my own home?

Perhaps the wisdom of this saying alludes to our ability to make any person, place, or time our home. Home can be many splendid things all at the same time.

It can be the family you were born into and the family you choose. It can be the house you grew up in and any place that you feel a strong connection to. It can even be an ethereal moment caught in a place and time that only exists in your mind, but that doesn’t make it less of a home.

Because home is where the heart is.