Home

What is home? Is it a place, a feeling, a person? Is it the place we were born or the place we grew up? Is it the place we've spent the most time in, or made the most friends? What if it were all of these things, and none of them at all?

To quote one of my favourite singers, "They say home is where you go to rest your bones, it's where you go when you're alone." Nicely summed up, Gabrielle. Except right now, the place I go when I'm alone is in fact an ever-changing, murky ocean, with massive waves going way over my head, and all the while I'm inside one of these inflatable donuts, being tossed around this way and that way. Oh, and it's got a tiny hole.

I've had home before. I've made home many times. I even thought I'd found my forever home. I've made friends who are now more like family, and I thought we'd all be together for ever, in the same country, county and maybe even town. I've made home with my husband, cooking and eating and sleeping and feeling safe within four walls that weren't actually ours but felt like they were. I've lived at home, and then realised that home was somewhere else. I've brought home with me wherever I've gone, and each time it's felt bigger and safer and more permanent.

When things begin to stagnate, you think, this is my life and I'm happy. You can't foresee any change. You don't want any change. Not when you're comfortable and content, and all your ducks are in a row quacking contentedly as well. That is, until the Great Stirring begins.

The Great Stirring; or that feeling deep inside that requires attention, and will shout and shout until it gets your attention. First come the doubts. This Thing I'm thinking about doing; could I really justify it? Is this just a fleeting feeling; an impermanent desire? Or is this something deeper; are my heart and soul trying to reveal some deeper, greater truth?

I got this feeling when I decided to break up with my ex. It was like a sort of deep knowing that I couldn't shake. Like as much as the action felt horrible and uncomfortable and maybe even ridiculously spontaneous, it was inexplicably right. It didn't feel good at the time, but afterwards and with hindsight I realised why God/the Universe/Life had rescued me out of that situation.

Similarly, when my boyfriend (at the time) and I decided to relocate to the UK, it was like all the Forces of the Universe were aligning to bring us here. It was right, petrifying, exciting and difficult all at the same time. We moved out whole life across the Channel to put our roots down in Kent. Talk about culture shock. As much as I am British myself, I had lived in France for 6 years, and those 6 years had been probably the most formative of my life. From nineteen to twenty-five, I was still shaping and creating the person I've become.

France had really felt like home. The kind of home that moulds and shapes and breaks you, ultimately brining out the best in you. Some of the worst things that have ever happened to me happened in France, but so did some of the best. I suppose I was scared that by leaving France I'd stop learning, growing and healing. But it was an irrational fear. You don't stop growing because you leave the place where you grew the most. No, you grow with life, and your world grows with you, wherever your current word may be.

Anyway, fast forward a few many years, and here I am, sitting in a coffee shop in Edinburgh, fifty minutes from the town we are currently calling home.

Our decision to move to Scotland has seemed like the most irrational one of all. We had a great life in Kent. Jobs we loved (at least on my part!), amazing friends, we lived in the most idyllic village and we were within a short driving distance from our favourite towns, Folkestone and Canterbury. Not only that; it felt like home. We could see ourselves growing old there. We even found a house we wanted to buy and put down a deposit. But it wasn't meant to be.

When the family selling the house decided to pull out, we were devastated. It had been our dream home. Just about affordable, in the most perfect location, surrounded by countryside. It had been a much bigger house than the others we had seen in our budget. We had already given our hearts to that house. So when we lost it, our hearts broke.

A trip to Scotland with our good friend Andy was the tonic we needed to get over our devastation. We stayed on the Isle of Bute and we were reminded of the rugged beauty that had regularly drawn us up there on holiday. And we did what we often used to do, like a guilty pleasure; we searched for houses in Scotland on Rightmove. We searched and we laughed until we cried in seeing the house prices that were almost half of what we had looked at in Kent.

It was during our trip to Scotland that a new idea began to hatch in our minds. It didn't start with either of us in particular; it grew between us, growing as we talked through various ideas long into the night, imagining how life might be for us if we moved up.

It would mean great sacrifice for Max, whose family is in France. But it would mean we would finally be able to buy the house of our dreams.

Back and forth, we tossed our ideas, and once we were back in Kent we even made lists of pros and cons; a growing realisation that our pros list was much longer than our cons. We knew that it would cost us. We could already feel the heaviness and the sorrow of leaving behind all we had come to know and love. We wondered how we would cope with the growing chasm between Max's family and ourselves. But no matter how much the decision to move would be difficult, we knew with unshakable clarity that it was the right decision for us.

How to justify something you can't explain? Quite simply, you can't. That's still where we're finding ourselves, while we unpack our boxes and listen to the unfamiliar accents drifting past our window.

Sometimes I wake up during the night, confused and disjointed. I think my subconscious is looking, grappling even, for something to call home. I'm beginning to experience moments of it, as one always does, the longer they stay in one place. Like when we met one of my oldest and dearest friends for dinner on Saturday and I realised that I would be able to see her all the time. Like when I teach French from my computer to familiar faces and the different colour of my wall doesn't alter anything. And like today, when I stepped off of the train in Edinburgh, and saw the friendly, familiar and spectacular stone walls of the castle looming over the city, and felt the excitement of getting to trail the cobbled streets for new favourite coffee shops and charity shops. Edinburgh is a diverse, multi-cultural city and I think in the end that is where I most feel at home. I feel at home in a sea of people who, like me, are also looking for home. And when we finally find it, or even just catch a glimmer of it in someone else's eyes, even if it's just for a season; we can hold on to that feeling. We can begin to put our roots down and for a time the restlessness will dissolve away into content and comfort.

I tend to think home is people. Home is a collective feeling of togetherness and community. Home is belonging.

And home is following your heart, wherever it takes you.