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Updated: Apr 13, 2019


Rochester Cathedral, in my home town...

I'm sitting in someone else's garden, my brain fogged with the cold that's whacked me in the fast over the last few days. Generic 4-chord songs by artists I don't know bubble out of the radio across the patio and out onto the lawn. The faint hiss of the sprinkler is drowned out by synth keyboard and drum machines.

I've been thinking a lot about home.


It's a word with so many definitions. For many it's a temporal place; the place where you were, the place where you are, the place you will one day be. It's the cherry on top of a mere residential address. For others, it's the people who share those spaces. The family, friends, community that we find. Or are found by. Some find a home in objects or pastimes.


I wonder, at times, whether it's possible to know where home is; whether it's a fact or a choice. Does the act of putting down roots make home a reality? Or is it like a soulmate, arriving like a bolt from the blue when we least expect it?


I imagine it can be both, depending on circumstance. But that doesn't make finding it any easier. After all, when is rooting an act of self-preservation? When is uprooting an act of self-sabotage?



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