"Take me home... because I don't remember"
Sometimes I feel like this. Often really.
HOME is maddeningly fleeting. It is a mirage, like all mirages, that you wish you could run to grab and hold but winds up as a specter's vapor when you try to handle it. If only we could get more of it in our pocket.
One of my favorite fictional literary "Homes" is The Last Homely House from The Fellowship of the Ring.
"Frodo was now safe in the Last Homely House east of the Sea. That house was, as Bilbo had long ago reported, 'a perfect house, whether you like food or sleep or story-telling or singing, or just sitting and thinking best, or a pleasant mixture of them all'. Merely to be there was a cure for weariness, fear, and sadness. Evil things did not come into the secret valley of Rivendell."
The Last Homely House was in the Elvish land of Rivendell found just beyond the Misty Mountains. It was a mythical land of refuge and safety based upon the Lauterbrunnental in Switzerland, where J. R. R. Tolkien had hiked in 1911. It was a myth and a wish of a place where people wanted to (and could) STAY not leave.
In Field of Dreams, Doc Graham insists on STAYING not LEAVING Chisholm Minnesota even though protagonist Ray Kinsella insists that leaving would make his dreams come true. Doc calmly says with a smile,
This is my most special place in all the world, Ray. Once a place touches you like this, the wind never blows so cold again. You feel for it, like it was your child. I can't leave Chisholm.
I've always wanted a Chisholm. A Rivendell. A perfect house with a Churchill Room and a fire, lots of maps and leather. I've always wanted HOME to STAY in. But it's a vapor. The home I remember as a boy isn't even there anymore. My friends who shared my Shire are lawyers, teachers and men of industry in far away cities. My room is labeled "spare" and a long-haired cat that makes me wheeze with allergies sleeps where my dog used to.
I think it's what makes me love OLD. I live in the small century home of my Grandparents. Today I found an old coat-hanger that my long-gone Grandfather had written his name on. It's possible that his Sunday Church suit may have hung upon it. It's a vapor but somehow even the mirage reminds me of the me that I have to howl sometimes to remember.
We become adults, grasping at history, hoping that in our scramble for air, space and legacy... we're somehow creating HOME for our kids to frolic in during their gestation season. We're neither lost nor alone. We're aware enough to realize that the home we knew, only lives in our memory and we'll only ever get glimpses and gasps from here on out until we arrive in our heavenly home... which I'm going to assume is quite spectacular. I must believe it will be worth the wait for REAL home.