We just spent four days back on the farm in West Virginia. We spent time with family, I gave a reading at a farm dinner, and we tended to some family business-type stuff. It was a very productive time!
And when it was over I felt utterly torn. That farm is my first home. The house and I are the same age and some of the land has been in my family for seven generations. Roots grow deep there.
After sitting out on the deck watching deer graze through the pasture, rambling through the fields and woods with Thistle, poring over family albums, cooking in the kitchen where I learned to cook, sleeping in my parents’ old room . . . Well, as we packed up the car I wasn’t sure if we were going home or leaving it behind.
It’s an odd sensation–feeling so very connected to a place. I think I’m going to need to spend some time contemplating what “home” means.
Dictionary.com lists one of the definitions as, “a person’s native place or own country.” Now that would be the farm. I am indigenous to those 100 acres in central West Virginia.
Another definition is, “the place in which one’s domestic affections are centered.” Ah. Now that would be the house in Western NC where I live with my husband. He IS the center of my domestic affection.
So then. Perhaps I have two homes and will simply have to deal with the tension tugging my heart up and down this stretch of the Appalachian Mountains. Two beautiful places filled with people I love.
I think I can live with that.