Home

Home.
Aside from Mother, Father, and God, it is possibly the most emotionally charged word in the English language.
Home.
What is home? Why is it so important?
In my World Cultures class, we recently watched a film about Tibet, as the students learned about the plight of the Tibetan people and their quest for independence. Whatever you feel about the whole issue, you have to admit that not being able to go "home" for 60 years would be terrible. Not ever knowing "home," as the children of the Tibetan refugees face, would be incomprehensible for most people.
Today in class we discussed current events. I printed a bunch of news articles from the regions and continents we have studied and I asked the students to read and respond. As a whole class, we read this. I asked to students to tell me what they thought about the idea of "home" and explain why they think that a bunch of dirt would be so important to people. After all, it's just dirt. Some of their responses surprised and astounded me, and I became emotional. One student mentioned how she always gets homesick when he goes to girls camp, and how she is so happy to get a letter from her parents because it's a piece of home. Another student said that home is always a haven, even if it's just in your imagination. Many of them expressed appreciation that someone would risk so much to give that gift to people he hadn't ever even met, or were very sad to learn of Tibetans who were born outside of their homeland and will most likely never get to go there in person.
It made me think of my family and how fragmented we all are. It made me homesick, and reminded me of the little pieces of home I carry with me on my physical person and in my heart: the smell of orange blossoms, the taste of Blue Bell Ice Cream, an abalone necklace that my grandmother gave me when I turned 16, my love of books, the songs I sing to myself when nobody is listening.
It made me think of my recent pilgrimage to Ireland, and how I've been homesick my entire life for the country that my family left generations ago. It's funny how much of the original pioneers' culture my family retains. We still plant wild, messy gardens wherever we can find a patch of dirt and act as if the trees are our family members. We still keep vinegar in the kitchen to use as a condiment. We still flock to the sea whenever we can, and revere it with an almost religious devotion. We still get dreamy whenever it starts to rain. We're still shy with strangers, and wild with our own.
I've never lived there, but to me Ireland is most definitely a home.
I thought of my husband who left his home 13 years ago to come to this strange, cold place with little more than a backpack full of clothes and the knowledge that he had work to be done here. I understood a little better the weepy Mariachi songs he sings when we clean house on Saturday. I understood a little better why he insists on attending church services in Spanish.
What is home?

Home.

Home.

I think it's the place we never stop trying to get back to.