For the Houses That Won't Hold

A meditation on home and an upcoming new essay project

Aug 31, 2024

“the echo of benediction on a house—
its rooms of pain, its verandah of remorse
when joy lanced through its open-hearted doors
like a hummingbird out to the garden and the pool
in which the sky has fallen. These are all yours,
and pain has made them brighter as absence does
after a death, as the light heals the grass.”

- Derek Walcott, “[The day, with all its pain ahead, is yours]”

I once posed the question of home to a group of women: “What is your favorite house you’ve lived in?” The circle returned blank stares. Most of them had hardly changed residence, much less town; they’d been born nearby and stayed. Others didn’t seem to attach much sentimentally to what is really just a built structure; no poignancy there. The discussion flopped, but I cannot believe there aren’t others out there like me, whose previous or present houses are nothing short of characters in their own life story. Who have, at least once, lived in a house that became an enlivening environ of deep belonging–only to have to leave it for another place that wouldn’t press into that same mold of deep connection, no matter the effort to make the new structure fit.

Houses that are homes, in my experience, aren’t a dime a dozen, but instead, come unexpectedly and are left behind with great sorrow, not to mention a suitcase heart full of memory and friendship.

In the introduction to her book The Making of Home, Judith Flanders delves into different words for “house” and “home.” I am struck by the French word for both together: maison. Its Latin root is mansio, which means even more—and less: “stopping place.” I’m not sure if it is perfect or if it gets the whole shebang wrong, because when I think of my current house, it is home to me in just the sense Flanders quotes from the Oxford English Dictionary: “The place where one lives…with reference to the feelings of belonging, comfort, etc., associated with it.”

I pull down my blue, cloth-covered copy of the Oxford English Dictionary from the row of bookcases lining a corner of my living room wall. The volume is weighted, it seems, with not only the massive number of pages, but also the mass of meaning within–and this is only A through M. The entries for “home” span an entire fine-printed, tissue-paper page. I could swim in these words till lunchtime. Here are some of my favorite definitions:

“The place where one lives permanently, esp. as a member of a family or household; a fixed place of residence….esp. as representing the centre of family life.”
“The family or social unit occupying a home. Freq. with descriptive adjective, as broken home, happy home.”
“A place or region to which one naturally belongs or where one feels at ease. Also spiritual home.”
“A place where a thing flourishes or from which it originates.”
“SPORTS & GAMES. An area where a player is free from attack. Also, the point aimed at, the goal.”

Does anyone live anywhere permanently their whole life these days? And would the definition still stand true if we make ourselves free to remove the word “family” from between “centre of” and “life”? Might–just might–home actually be the center of life? And if so, what does that mean for those who don’t have a home, at least not one in which they feel “at ease”? What does this mean for the soul who lives in or has originated from a “broken home?”

For those of us who find ourselves, whether in childhood or present-day, in a home where we flourish, might this originating place, this center of thriving life, have an outward-gyring affect? Might we emerge from within our own four walls, sending that flourishing spinning off our heels into the world, into the regions where others aren’t free from danger without or within, and grab our fellow humans and wrap our arms around them and turn them toward the point aimed at, the point always aimed at in my heart, the goal: true home.

And this is only from the entries under “home” as noun and adjective. Imagine if we followed the path of home as a verb. But first, we have to face some facts about the houses we live in. “Belonging” and “ease,” or comfort: for what other reason do I love the many homes I have had? (Count them: twenty-three so far.) In contrast, the Latin “stopping place” sounds merely like a spot to put your feet up for a minute before journeying on, a break along the arduous pilgrim way. Like those shelters built along the Appalachian trail for through-hikers, the open-sided, wooden structures where you can rest for a moment or a night, get refueled and refreshed for the next stretch of endurance walking. The idea isn’t to settle in and stay, but to find a haven from the rain for a few minutes, dig trail mix out of your backpack and catch your breath in peace before moving on.

The trajectory of life in this modern, Western world doesn’t often allow us to stay in one locale all our lives long, and leavings-behind are an ordinary part of the human experience. This is hard on a homebody, on someone who is relational to the core, who thrives on regularity and predictable routine. “Stopping place” doesn’t feel like enough.

But if, on the other hand, the best benefits of a house that is a true home are belonging, purpose, and peace, then the homes we do find or make along the way are treasures we don’t fully leave behind, even when we leave them. Like jeweled beads on the string of our cumulated days, we keep them in our pockets, or our backpacks, perhaps. And when we happen upon the next shelter in the rough terrain, we stop with gratitude for what it is: a place to pull out that string with its beads and slide them along like a rosary, like a remembrance, like a reminder that something of home always stays with us. That kinship and comfort endure, even if their forms are threatened or clouded for a time.

In the summer of 2020—yes, that summer—I began a book about houses and home. In January 2022, I submitted the first draft to my publisher, and within weeks realized I was autistic. The lens shifted. Entire chapters were removed, new ones added, old stories rising to the surface with new understanding. The publisher and I parted ways amicably. I held a new story in my hands. I had thought it was a memoir, but it wasn’t: it was a collection of memoir-style essays, tightly braided with books and houses and the idea that being different is okay.

Meanwhile, Substack arrived and became a warm, vibrant, and supportive home for writers (I thank you readers for that), and I realized that this is where I want to share my essays on books and houses and being different. I want to share them with you. My hope is that you will want to share your experiences back, that we might engage in some healing and hopeful conversations around the unique ways we walk through this life.

Here’s what the At Home with Books portion of my substack will look like:

The first two essays (I think of them as the Prologue and Chapter 1) will run in September and will be free to all readers.
The following essays (I think of them as Chapters 2-10 and the Epilogue) will release monthly for paid subscribers, with a few exceptions. I want everyone to get to read my “Front Porch” chapter.
Discussion threads (because I want to hear about your experiences in your own houses and reading life) will happen the week or two following.
Scheduling format is subject to change if it appears you and I need different timing to lean into this project together.

I hope many of you will want to join me in this project. I’ve set my monthly and annual submission fees pretty low, hoping to make these pieces as accessible as possible. If the essays in At Home with Books move you, I hope you will share them with others. But if longform reading on the internet isn’t your cup of tea, no hard feelings! (Also, a heaping dose of respect for knowing your preferences and boundaries.)

Look for the first installment of At Home with Books to launch next Friday, September 6th. Until then, keep your eyes open to the echoes of benediction on your own house, as Derek Walcott beautifully enverses. On your own life. The ways joy and pain lance through each other and refract a healing light.