I should take a break

A short hiatus.

The other day, I met a well-dressed woman in her seventies who travels constantly; her agenda for the rest of the year includes trips to India, Australia and New Zealand. Where’s home? I asked her, to which she responded: ‘I have a home within myself.’ (Although her suitcases, I subsequently found out, reside in Suffolk).

I relate to this woman – sometimes. During a good meditation session (and they’ve been rare, as of late), I visualise a physical place within my chest: a little perch beyond my heart, where I can simply exist with an empty mind. It’s a home where I can retreat. Away from the doubts and anxieties that nip away at me; other people’s voices; the everyday to-dos of the flight I need to book, the thoughtful gift I need to buy; the comment I perhaps shouldn’t have made. I rest in that place, unencumbered, protected. I feel another kind of home when I write, specifically when I’m in that ever-elusive flow. There’s a voice in my head that’s me, and yet external to me – and connecting with it feels like coming home to someone I love.

Over the past couple of years, I’ve invested more than ever in the notion of home as a physical space. When I’m in my flat in London, the space where I’m writing this from, I’m surrounded by objects chosen by me, or people close to me: and they reinforce a sense of who I am, tying together past memories and curiosities to create a patchwork quilt which reflects my identity back at me. I’ve recently been reading Perfection by Vincenzo Latronico, a novel about a hipper-than-hip millennial couple living as expats in Berlin, carefully curating an enviable home together (think elite-level house plants, parquet floors, twin home offices, etc). From a few pages in – I’m halfway through – it becomes clear that Perfection is a satire. Of the digital nomad lifestyle, of the power of stuff to define oneself, of our image-obsessed, always-online culture. In this novel, stuff is just stuff.

And yet it’s not as simple as that, is it? Offline, these objects can be so loaded with meaning you barely register their appearance, like a beloved childhood teddy bear with a missing eye. It’s not superficial to love a ceramic mug, or a second-hand marble coffee table from Facebook Marketplace, or a pair of curtains that frame the late-afternoon light in just the right way. At some point in one’s life, a home might be a symbol of what you’ve built with a significant other, or a family. When you live alone, it becomes an emblem for self-love, and an active one; in many ways, that home loves you back each time it makes your day a little more pleasant (the mug, the coffee table, the new curtains it took me six years to have installed…).

Our homes – and the objects we fill them with – reflect back our life choices, past and present. And sometimes that feeling of groundedness can help to propel us into the future: a comfortable base to launch from. At other periods, those places can feel stagnant. Cosy, and wonderful, but stagnant. In my case, I’ve been staying still in my cocoon, holding my breath, reluctant to try my luck and rock the boat by leaving. Striving for stability, while everyone’s lives change around me. Open to change – in theory – but going for it half-heartedly.

And so, like a snail (or a well-dressed woman in her seventies), I’m off to Lisbon for another month to mull this all over, carrying my sense of home along with me (to, in turn, the only city other than London that’s ever felt like home). During that time, I’ll be taking a little break from this newsletter (why does that always feel like telling a teacher I haven’t done my homework? Paid subscription gang – payments will be paused!). Although I’ll be away from my physical home in my respects, I’m excited to see what that distance brings. I’m hungry for change in some form – it’s times like these I wish I liked tattoos, or haircuts – so let’s see how that goes. In a month or so, I’ll keep you posted.

In the meantime, enjoy the rest of your summer – I’d love to hear what you’re up to in the comments (because I’ll have total FOMO not writing to you every week) – and I’ll be back before you know it. For now, Adeus, which I’ve just learnt is the Portuguese word for goodbye.