By Jan Martinez
What is the feeling of home? That quality that confirms we’ve landed safely and gently into some sacred, familiar ground? It’s a worthy question and one I ask because how else will we know? It isn’t just the shape of the door through which out bodies and hearts can pass so easily. It’s much more than that.
I recall my second, or was it my third, trip to Ireland, landing to familiar air and moisture, landing into an abundance of greenery. Then falling into that soft bed in that chilled room, the radiator oh so slowly pumping out heat to penetrate the cold. But in that space I felt the lyrical hug of the entire island envelop me. Home, I felt.
Or the second time I visited Bali, leaving Denpasar, driver circling statues of Gods I didn’t know, but who maybe did know me. That mixture of smells—exhaust fumes, incense, smoky champaca filling the air, the regular offerings of reverence. And even as we’d landed physically after 36 hours of travel, I felt home.
Here, surrounded by my 100-year-old lady of a house, I feel it most intensely. The way her creaks and quirks have settled into my bones. The way her corners have softened to allow me to slip easily from one place to another, as if swimming. She trips my husband up every now and then, just for fun. She has that sort of sense of humor.
Here I feel safe; I feel free. Expansiveness and coziness coexisting. One day I may have to leave. So I have to know, have to believe, that whoever Home is, I’ll be able to carry her with me.