A few days ago, I visited the temporary little home of a traveler friend.
Sarah had come from Delhi to the mountains of Dharamshala, carrying two enormous backpacks full of things.
I looked at her with a questioning expression in my eyes, asking without speaking: – Why do you do this to yourself?!
– I want to have my things with me – she said – Yes, it’s quite heavy, but this time, however long I stay here, I want to feel at home.
Then I entered her room and felt, in my own skin, what she was telling me. I saw her little altars, her photos with her sister, the magic hidden in every memory, her personal objects that spoke for themselves. And then, I understood her, and I also got to know her more. I saw her as a child, her routes through Latin America, and the little house in Brazil she had told me so much about.Her family, her long hair, and all her gods.
I, too, felt a sense of home.
I had been in my new place for a week, but I was still in movement mode, and due to lack of time, I hadn’t yet taken out my gods, as my mother calls them.
My friend inspired me.
As soon as I arrived “home,” I did it.
I was in a hostel, I didn’t have much space, but I opened my travel bundles and placed my gods on the window, along with my talisman-stones, my sacred objects, my candles, my phrases on the mirror, my meaningful photos, and my incense.
My bronze Buddha and Ganesha, each weighing a kilo, finally came out of the bag where they had been suffocating.
And I realized that for me, constantly moving from one place to another, what I had just done was essential.
Why?
Because it gave me a sense of home.
It was my anchor amidst so much movement.
Recognizing myself.
Knowing where I’m going, where I come from, and where I belong,
both internally and externally.
TO HAVE AND TO BE, AT THE SAME TIME, MY OWN REFUGE. My own words of encouragement.
They are not just objects, they are part of me.
The possibility of finding myself, wherever I am.
And continuing to walk in that same direction,
wherever I move,
as just an extension of the path, of the space,
of the same journey.
How important this is for us travelers, where sometimes a “home” lasts only a few days.
How important it is, that act of housing our small but significant objects
and giving them a space,
even if only on a window frame,a shelf, a book, a little plate,
or a carefully folded cardboard box.
Creating a place for them and finding our own in the same dialectical process.
In that time of construction, of pause, of center.
Now, even when I sit in a café to work, I bring my two huge quartz stones and place them on the table near me.
People stare. I feel at home, wherever I am…
When home moves with you, you don’t need much else.
As a traveler, these are the moments when you realize you almost understood it all ♡
Home is not a physical place,
it is a sensation, a feeling.
And so, home can also be that motorbike loaded with all your objects,
that anchors you,
that moves with you,
that reminds you who you are,
what you do, and how you go.
That moving-home,
that accompanies you
on the journey
of the life
you choose.
Here we are…Granting meaning,
finding stability in movement, learning to make any place my home. Like the Fox and the Little Prince.
______________________________
Thanks to my sisters for the photos, the companionship in the journey, the courage, and the inspiration,
that gives you more strength
to keep building
your own refuge with more intention.
❦
Little homes of Eri, Rochu, Eve, Sarah, Gaby, and Greti,from Copenhagen, Dharamkot, Sardinia, and the whole world ♡
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