Our first home is our mother’s womb from which, at birth, we are evicted. In the womb, biology manages our needs but, once out of the womb, all that changes. Some are luckier than others and continue to be nurtured wheres others are left homeless. It is a fundamental moment in our lives because our childhood follows us wherever we go acting as a compass to give us a direction. And if our compass is broken, it’s easy to get lost.
To be at home with oneself, it’s imperative to have a concept of home. A home is not just a material structure. It’s an equilibrium (and a dialogue) between the part that’s within us and the part that surrounds us. It’s a reflection of who we are. Thus, as a form of self-analysis, I’ve decided to study the history of my home. But here “history” isn’t about when or by whom the house was constructed. Or about who lived in it before me. The “history” is about me and the personal history I’ve created while living within the physical space I call home. Since I don’t live alone but with my companion, it’s also about the history of the two of us together. It’s the history of the door that we both have a key to. It’s the history of the sofa where together we sit and watch films or cringe to depressing newscasts. It’s the history of the bed where we make love or where we peacefully and sometimes not so peacefully sleep. It’s the history of the bathroom where we care for our bodies or look in the mirror to see the passing of time on our faces. It’s the history of the kitchen where we drink coffee in the mornings or where we prepare meals that will become parts of our bodies.
(“History of a Home” Cynthia Korzekwa ©)