The workers in Warpole Park unpacking a truck were speaking Italian, calling back and forth instructions. When people ask them where they are from, do they say the region of Italy, the town where their parents where born, christened and wed? What if their mum is from a region far from their dad's birthplace that whispers stories that are vastly different; of mountains and snow, rather than seaside? What if they've never been to these towns? What if it's only these stories? Are they still from Italy? Do they FEEL they are from Italy? Does it matter to them?
I've always been from at least two places. And I write about this more than anything else. Wales, England. Australia.
Tomorrow I fly home to Melbourne, from my home in London. From my Dad, step-mum and brothers to my husband, to my children.
What makes a home? Is it the knowing of a place in all its seasons? The calls of the birds and insects? The scurry of the mammals in the night. Is it the scent in the morning? Is the familiar, the comfortable, the worn? Your instinctive ingrained knowledge of place; the timing at the pedestrian crossing, the timing of the lights at the cross roads, where to hang your washing to catch the most sun?
Is it the friendly nods and greetings on the street and shops? Your local cafe knowing your order? The names of local kids and dogs on your tounge.
How you make a home? Is it with effort or ease? Or both? Is it the passage of time? How much? Quality or quantity?
Does it stay yours if you leave? And your parents move house? And your old school is renovated beyond all recognition? If it's somehow shrunk and seems smaller? Does it stay yours if it changes, and you're not there to witness it?
Is home where your from? It doesn't have to be, does it? You could make a new home, not look back, not hold your memories to the light, turn them over, explore their frayed edges and sharp parts. Not bring them into the world with your words, not share them with others. You can let them fade. Or the flood of life can sweep them away, lost.
How many homes can you have? Can you create as many as you need? Can they be fleeting respites in bigger world? Can you leave them with love?
Do you carry enough in you for home to be wherever you are? "Where ever I lay my hat, that's my home?" Does the light through the window bring warmth and wonder? Do the sounds of life bring you contentment? Can you be at home where you are? Even if people you love are very very very far away.
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