Home is where the heart is. Or so the saying goes.
On a philosophical level, I certainly agree with this statement. If one is truely connected to ones inner (and true) self, then ‘home,’ as a place that can be identified by its feeling of belonging, comfort and security, should certainly be contained within the heart… within self.
For those of us who find ourselves existing on a lower order of consciousness and awareness, home is intrinsically wrapped up in the physical expressions of these sensations of belonging, comfort and security and thus exist in a state of attachment to an actual locale, whether it be a particular house, a neighborhood, under your mother’s bed etc. etc. And yes, yes, yes… I know being attached to physical things or even people is indicative of an unhealthy relationship… So shoot me, I’m human.
And therein lies my conundrum. I like to think of myself as being a rather conscious, sensitive, self-aware being but each time I am put to the test, each and every time I return to Israel, which in all practical rights is my new ‘home’, I am left with this weird sensation of the conflict between the knowledge of being home without the feeling that I think should accompany that knowledge. I think this realization (which has only really become clear to me in my most recent return this month – before which it was all insane emotional drama) is a big one, and I know there is something more to it… But I can’t quite put my finger on what that is…
Wondering if there are any other expats or otherwise enlightened people out there who might be able to throw some light on this topic. Or perhaps it is an emotional path that can only be resolved with time… Who knows? Certainly not me.