Sun 5 Mar 2006
When existing outside of the frame of reference which has earned – for an idiosyncratic array of rational and meaningless elucidations which usually defy the power of the tacit – the title ‘home,’ and considering what one has lost, it is imperative to remember that the principal psychological fixation all of us lose once we make the great leap outward is the reality of our definition of home: our nascent persona’s training ground, that abode of the self which seems inimitable and eternal.
While the mental construct remains unchanged throughout the duration of one’s time away, upon returning he or she will find that the truth of life at the origin of the exodus has percolated slowly into a cup of purified change, adapting and mutating as the habitual structure of those one leaves behind evolves to support life without the vagabond who has managed to escape the imbedded and imbedding social dance, as the particulars take on their forbidding magnificence – for so long taken for granted.
As Thomas Wolfe wrote, ‘You can never go home again,’ meaning that whether or not one chooses to retreat back to the dwelling of the subconscious child inside, to the place one calls home, that dwelling will have been demolished, paved over, and rented out to people you barely know anymore, people who seem to barely know you.
I have lost the sense of a tangible home, a place I can follow the dusty roads of attachment towards, a place I can return to – yet that paves the way for what T.S. Eliot articulated, ‘..to return to a place and know it for the first time.’
So what have I lost? It would be easy to say…home. But perhaps, for all of what seems to be my loss, I have gained a perspective on the place I love so much, removed from the cultural homogenization which circumscribed my former view of it, and that now, after all the travels of my wayward existence, I have baptized my home in the fire of sabbatical and found the secret name of the place I for so long misidentified: my home is myself.