The other day, I caught myself subconsciously asking when I would go home.
Although it was merely a fleeting thought that I would usually brush off, this time, it started an introspective journey as to why it would instantaneously pass through my mind that after over a year in Wilmore, I would feel an ache for a forgotten place.
Why would I keep my identity attached to a physical place that I haven’t called home for nearly six seasons? Why do the memories linger, and my nostalgia replace reality? Wouldn’t home be my Kresge dorm room, where I go for comfortable silence? Couldn’t home possibly be a short glimpse of myself in the mirror?
The easy answer is that I am reluctant to change. The more deeply-sought answer is that I tend to encompass myself in memories because they are more comfortable than the memories I am creating now.
For those new to experiencing college campus life, allow yourself to first become content in yourself.
Home should not be a memory.
As much as past experiences contribute to who you are, dwelling on them forms an anxious dependence upon the feelings they give you.
Beryl Markham, in her memoir titled, “West of the Night,” said, “I have learned that if you must leave a place that you have lived in and loved and where all your yesteryears are buried deep, leave it any way except a slow way, leave it the fastest way you can.”
Leaving memories behind is difficult. I would much rather think about my dog sitting on the porch with me watching a thunderstorm roll through rather than sliding my thumb over the faded dog tag I remember him by. I would sooner think about an arm reaching around my waist as opposed to subjecting myself to the cold, empty absence without one.
The ghost of a person or place is not where you draw your identity. Your previous address does not define you. Replaying memories causes you to live in a pseudo-reality of the “good times,” when you could be learning from what is happening right now.
The notion of home is ever-changing.
Just as you have moved houses, or across state borders, finding a home in yourself does not mean that it will remain constant and familiar due to the natural processes of growth and life.
It’s okay to feel uncomfortable with yourself, the uneasiness merely shows that you were exposed to newly formed practices and life alterations. Sometimes, you must take the time to get to know yourself to feel secure.
I never thought I would enjoy endlessly thinking as much as I do now, so I have learned to sit in the silence and make time for myself, because how could anyone ever truly know me if I don’t know myself?
For instance, recently I have learned that if I look up at my ceiling and look right back down, I’m uninspired. I have noticed that having his favorite book sitting on my desk is easier, for now, than packing it in a box. I have come to realize that I did not become the person that my younger self wanted to become but I am closer to the person I was meant to become.
Sometimes, sitting alone with myself is equivalent to sitting with a stranger, but I combat the feeling just as I would when re-meeting a distant acquaintance by simply saying, “Hi, I’m Madi.”
Ask yourself, what is home to me?
Is it the uneven, dark blue carpet in your first apartment where the weight of getting older became too much to handle alone? Was it the comforting memory of his keys unlocking the side door after work? Is it the indie-alternative album that paints a picture of the October raindrops on your windshield and transports you to a time of innocence that you long to go back to?
Home needs to be internal, not a reliance-built set of external factors that has pieced you together.
Home is having enough self-assurance to speak up during that meeting.
Home is not desperately waiting for the next important person to stumble in your path.
Home is here, where God has set you down.