A Home Away From Home

Before I dive into this week's topic, I want to say: last week, I did not take into account that this Wednesday was September 24, which is always a day of bereavement for me. So apologies for the delay by a day!

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This week I want to focus on the ways in which I've found success in fending off some of my homesickness. Some things I did right by from the get-go, and others have taken some work after the fact. I hope you find these reflections interesting, and inspire you to think about your own homemaking essentials!

When I was a kid, I picked up a copy of Cornelia Funke's Inkheart because I fell instantly in love with its cover: a hardback novel, eye-catchingly red with a framed fantasy picture on the front, and the look of an old tome despite the binding being a printed image. It was fortunate that I did so, because the story itself ended up changing my life.

I identified with the protagonist immediately, who was a girl of 12 who read obsessively, and who frequently moved around because of her father's work. She had no friends her age, no siblings, and no mother. Books were her family and her friends, her dreams, and her waking reality. Her father worked as a book binder for old tomes, too delicate to be held or handled by the average book doctor. Though I certainly had siblings and friends in my real life, at the time and at the same age as Meggie, I felt unmoored, living with a stepfather I hated and changing schools four times in four years. I also found refuge in immersing myself in the worlds of books (if you're wondering, why yes, I did also love "Matilda," lol).

In Inkheart, our protagonist and narrator explains how she copes with the frequent moves and lack of a consistent home. She introduces the reader to her book chest: a literal wooden chest where she keeps her most beloved tomes at any given time, and which her father brings with them wherever they go. That way, she always has friends at hand - old ones and new ones as she reads and adds to her small collection of most precious books.

After reading Inkheart,I went through my own, not-insignificant collection of books and picked out the most important ones to 12 yo me. I set them aside from my other books, in a place they were always safe and at hand, and which I told myself was the marker of my "home," too, no matter that I was living in an unfamiliar place, with a person I hated, and when I rarely got to see my friends. That little collection of books, with members coming and going as the years passed, stayed with me as I grew up, moved out, and became an adult. During my (first) college years, I even bought them a little chest, and kept the collection small enough it could fit in that chest, covered lovingly in a silken kerchief. In times of distress, or loneliness, or despair, I would pull that little chest out, swing it open, and stroke the beloved spines of those novels, finding comfort in their familiarity and in the echoes of being comforted by them repeatedly through the years.

When I moved to Amsterdam, the chest wouldn't fit in my suitcase. With no small amount of pain, I removed the books and set the chest aside, knowing that really it was the collection that was the heart of the tradition, and the chest has been a secondary way to give it further significance and a special place over the years. Nevertheless, I'd like to home them again someday. Here is the collection now: and yes, that is indeed my original copy of Inkheart - perhaps the only book that has never been removed from its place in the collection.

A shelf of books; from left to right, Carl Sagan's Cosmos, Juliet Marillier's Daughter of the Forest, Tamora Pierce' "Lioness Quartet," series, a home-bound copy of Victor Hugo's Les Misérables, Cornelia Funke's Inkheart, and Anne Bishop's Daughter of the Blood

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I've mentioned it before, but the thing I most regret overlooking is how affected I would be without the scents of home. Similar to my chest of books, I have also long kept another chest filled with all sorts of spiritual things from over the years. Incense, oils, charcoal, wood, and herbs are all aspects of that collection, and so opening that chest is always a wonderful-smelling breath of home. I haven't kept any sort of altar regularly for a long time, now, but I've always had something out of that chest present in my homes. I didn't realize how much my comfort depended on those smells which take me back to childhood with my mother, who always smelled of spice and oil.

On an errand today, I passed by a Tibetan goods shop, and I hesitated when I caught a whiff of incense. Initially, I pressed on to complete my errand, but on the way back, I relented and went inside. I picked up a few nominal things to remind me of home; not the well-loved items I've collected for myself over the years, perhaps, but still familiar: an incense burner, charcoal, and some powdered incense to burn and a little scoop to scoop it. Later, when I drew everything out and burned some incense in my room, I was almost brought to tears by the amount of emotion the smell of it evoked. I will never again forget how essential scent is to me in making a place feel like a home.

A small collection of items; a black and gold incense bowl, a small copper scoop, and a container of powdered incense. In the background is a potted plant.

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The last thing I will touch on today is one that I attempted but didn't quite nail: bringing familiar hobbies to work on. On the one hand, I did have the foresight to bring my hand loom, my lyre, and enough illustration pens and variety of paper to ensure I could draw and write as soon as I landed. On the other hand, I underestimated how very much I would miss archery, and how difficult it would be to wait for a new bow to arrive (5-8 weeks for production alone). I also regret not bringing my SCA (Society for Creative Anachronism) garb, because while I can attend events here, with my new local groups, it won't be in the garb that was hand-made be me and my husband, and in which I attended all the local SCA events over the past year. I'm fortunate enough to be able to ask for the garb to be shipped to me, but I smack myself knowing I initially packed it and then took it out last minute to bring a suit with me, in case I attend a formal event out. I didn't consider how easy it would be to find another suit, whereas it is literally impossible to replace the garb made with love and imbued with the happy memories made while wearing it.

A sharply angled shot of a collection of items on a patterned fabric: a 16-string lyre, an assortment of pens, including regular ball point and gel pens as well as felt-tip and fountain pens, a small photo printer, a series of stamps with wax to imprint, a cute pair of scissors, and a hand loom.

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And so, I hope that you, readers, are inspired to think about what makes your home a home - or what those things might be if you had to leave your physical space behind, and travel alone. I would exchange all these things mentioned to have my family and kitties with me today, of course, but in the meantime they help to fend off loneliness and to recreate some little pieces of my home-based happiness wherever I go.

Do you have rituals or items you bring with you when moving, or travelling? I'd love to know. It seems like something often overlooked in the travel or moving blogs I read. Not all travel is the excitement of a new place, the sights to be seen, and the people to be met! Sometimes it's just sitting quietly in an unfamiliar place, and wishing there was something familiar around you.

Be well, everyone, and happy autumn! I am looking forward to the cool and rainy season - it has always been my favorite - and my favorite holiday is only a month away. Thank you for reading, and happy spooky season to you! 🎃

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