What does “home” mean to you?

Topic #261:

What does “home” mean to you? How would describe what it feels like to feel “at home”? It may be something specific about the physical details of where you’d like to live, or it could be more about how you feel when you are in the right place.

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  1. Home means to me serenity, comfort and relaxation. Anytime I take a trip back to visit my hometown, I sit and talk for hours with my grandmother. She cooks a nice dinner and dessert. We spend some time in her yard and dig around in the dirt of her flower garden. As a child, I have always loved getting my hands dirty. I can definitely say I wasn’t a typical girl yet I am not that typical woman. So home means family, love, laughter and just having a good time being in the presence of the people I love.

    The.Absolute.Most.

    http://theabsolutemost.wordpress.com

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  2. Fire and hearths metaphorically . The love between a husband and wife is where ‘Home’ is to me . But of course that is as close as it gets on earth to what our heavenly home is .

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  3. Home to me is where my heart is. It is a refuge where I am accepted unconditionally for everything I am. It is a haven where I would always be loved and cherished. With husband, I know that “I am home.”

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  4. “Home” to me is a place to refuel. I’m single with no familial responsibilities, so I live outside of home. Ergo, my “home” is my launching pad. (and if you couldn’t tell, I’m an Aires)

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  6. home means everything to me, it’s a place where I can feel comfortable and safety. the place that really understands me

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  7. Home is where ever my husband and kids are. I love them so much and their physical presence makes me at home anywhere.

    Great question!

    Cheers,
    Louise

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  8. Home is place you can retreat to when everything appears to go bad. At home you should be carefree, and feel safe.

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  9. “One day of late summer when I was six years old, I was playing with other kids from my neighbourhood in the narrow street behind where I lived with my mother, sister and three brothers. We rented an apartment in a hovel in a part of town where the poorest of the poor lived. It was a place where nothing ever happened and where time went by very slowly. Since everybody was equally poor and none of us kids ever had anything of value to make our friends envious, we didn’t really noticed we were poor. Plus we spent most of our days playing in the backstreet so to us, concrete looked like concrete no matter where we were. It didn’t matter to us either that all the tenants had their windows covered with newspapers. Nobody could afford to buy curtains so when the pages turned to a dark yellow colour and it was time for a new window treatment, we’d just buy a newspaper.

    There were dozens of clothes-lines going from our building to the building facing it on the other side of the street. So many lines and constantly bent by the weight of old, freshly washed clothes. I wish I could tell you that the clean clothes were a stark contrast to the landscape but an enormous beige bra hanging next to a formerly white t-shirt blended just fine with the rest of the tableau. To the easily amused eye of a child though, these lines looked like a giant spider web. We spent entire afternoons lying on our backs observing them and trying figure out which line connected to which apartment. Funny how the imagination of a child can be productive when it has to rely on its own power.

    Unemployed men sat in their rocking chairs on the balcony and drank beer all day while their wives stayed inside to roll enough cigarettes to last until late in the evening and also to get the meals ready on time. That last part was easy because nobody ever ordered à la carte in my neighbourhood. A can of beans or a can of stew, that was the menu du jour. For my family it was peanut butter, perfect for breakfast or lunch or dinner. So peanut butter it was; for breakfast, for lunch and for dinner. Anyway, husbands and wives spent their entire days just a few feet apart but the only moments they actually interacted with one another was when they yelled at us kids. Yes, it was that kind of neighbourhood.

    So when a big expensive white car turned on our street and drove in our direction, all of us kids stopped playing and marvelled at the car in absolute awe…”

    Excerpt from:
    http://www.citizenofvillejoie.com

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  10. Home for me is where I feel comfortable and secure.I’ve been to places where I am by myself and experience total loneliness that I cry myself to sleep but for sometime I feel at ease and meet people that I call friends then that place becomes Home to me too. Home to me is not just a place but also a feeling of great contentment,happiness and peace.

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  11. La maison sous-entend pour moi un endroit où je suis bien; je fais ce que j’ai envie de faire.
    Je trouve aussi que lorsqu’on est stressé par le travail ou autre chose , on est plus détendu quand on sait qu’on va retrouver sa maison.
    Quand on dit ‘maison’, on visualise tout ce qu’elle évoque et moralement, physiquement, on se sent bien.

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  12. Home for me holds two meanings.

    There is the home, the condo where I live with my husband. My place of refuge-free to be me, my place to share with family, those I love.

    However, there’s also a place I call Home that I long for, very much. I was born in Greece, but was 7 y/o when my family moved to the US (Western NY) and lived there for over 30years. As of a decade ago, I re-married and my husband was from Greece, so I moved back to Greece-to Thessaloniki, a city that holds many memories of my grandparents. Despite the fact that I call our condo/flat our “home”, I feel my real home, not the building, but the city where I grew up in NY, the place where I went to school, college, church, work, made friends and grew up surrounded by family, not just my immediate family, aunt, uncles, cousins. I especially get nostalgic about that “home” during this season, because it’s so beautiful in the Fall. I’d have to drive out of this city of concrete to see that. Yes, we have the sea nearby, and it’s beautiful, but no matter how much I’m enjoying the beach, or city walks, I still miss my home – New York. I long to go back, move back.. but I wonder when I do, will I long for my home here? Do we always long for what is out of reach? Would I be enjoying the Fall foliage there and thinking how much I miss the beaches here? I can’t help but think of an old song, called
    “Torn between two lovers”, for me that’s not two men, but my two homes-in the country that I was born, and the country that I spent most of my life.

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  13. A place to rest my body and soul from a long night’s work. Meditate, exercise, enjoy the singing of birds around my foliage apartment, cooking and eating my comfort meal and snuggle off to bed with my two cats =^..^=

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  14. Home in Arabic is “maskan”, the root of which is tranquility. Tranquility for the mind, body and soul. But home isn’t always given to you on a silver platter. Sometimes you have to make home, take home, find home in the stillness in the middle of the madness. I explore the idea in my blog, (though in not nearly enough depth as I’d like).

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