I wasn’t going to write a stream of consciousness post today – I’d already posted and have a zillion other things to be doing with the next five minutes while M sleeps, but then that thign happened, when you just pop over to somewhere to read what they wrote, stumble upon the prompt for the post and the post starts to write itself out.
What is going home like for you?
Home’s a funny word. I must surely have mused on here at some point about the definition of home to an expat with a family in a land not her own. Home means different thigns to different folks; ultimately for me, it’s where my heart is – my husband and son – but still, everyone has a real ‘home’ right? The place they grew up in, call their own?
‘Til I was 14 I lived with family in a normal UK town, 14-18 a foster family in a farmhouse on a mountain, 16-18 simultaneously at bording school in the Scottish wilds, and 18-21 in Liverpool in a city. When we go back to the UK, we call my Grandmothers house “home” for the days that we’re there, but except for extended stays between studying & travelling, I’ve never lived there. There is not one place in the UK which I would call home, but collectively they all form a part. And each time we go, we visit each of these parts – ‘cept Scotland, we’re yet to go there together though it’s on our wish list – and from each of these parts I pull a different part to make a whole, find the home in the combination than from the components themselves. But is there really home there? Will we visit once my Grandmother’s gone?
Set a timer and write for 5 minutes.
Write an intro to the post if you want but don’t edit the post. No proofreading or spellchecking. This is writing in the raw.
Publish it somewhere. Anywhere. The back door to your blog if you want. But make it accessible.
Add the Stream of Consciousness Sunday badge to your post.
Link up your post below.
Visit your fellow bloggers and show some love.