I will name the landmarks which remind me of home: Taranaki the mountain, all of the rivers which flow off him into the ocean, black sands. A shiny gallery which used to house the work of local artists once a year, the pub opposite, the people inside them both - ghosts included in the line up. My whanau - not restricted to relatives - ghosts also included. Those who have passed over (simple) or passed on (sometimes complicated - hearts don’t catalogue into chapters like books do). Ghosts - hosts with a G in front. G for Gin - have a tipple, or Generous - always got you, Gorgeous or Ghastly. All Gone.
Home is where the heart is - so learn to embody home. Different to being defined by where I am from - No Taranaki ahau (I am from/of Taranaki) No te iwi Pakeha . If I sit with myself and a cuppa in quiet I am home. Or play music, or dive into the abyss holding on tight to my hand, I am home. Diving into a lover feels like a different kind of home - more of a 2 bedroomed unit.
Grapple with words all you like but sometimes the answers don’t come along that way. I’m telling myself this after spending time away and on return still feel as if body and soul are separated. I’m home but there is lag. The magical no-man’s land, fluid and nothing catching. Heartstrings canopy above like power lines of love: down to the wire, charged and silent. Strung out between here and there, between me and you.
“The ache for home lives in all of us, the safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned.” Maya Angelou.