Where is home? I was born and raised in Istanbul, Turkey. I spent a majority of my adult life in Los Angeles. I have been spending my winters in Park City, Utah since 2014. Is my home a city or a house or a comfortable feeling? I call many places home. Where is my real home?
I am packing for Burning Man. When I arrive at the Playa, a random greeter at the door will give me a warm hug and say: Welcome home. My heart will tickle and I will have an ear to ear smile. I will feel home. So where is my home?
I came back from Istanbul yesterday. My heart was broken that I left home passing through the customs. Then my other dog, Chick, greeted me with stubborn juicy licks and a comfortable face welcomed me home. My heart tickled, I was home. This morning, I went to the same Iyengar yoga studio that I visit once every two months in LA. There are usually different instructors and 8-10 yogis. I run into my friend’s sister at the yoga class. She was a new member. I used to work out with her brother at the gym, in Malibu beach, at Culver City pool. I knew her very well although I met her once. I knew of her kids, I knew of her mom. Her warm hello felt home. It is my hood. I have memories in this town.
I had multiple theories defining the feeling of “home” for me.
My first theory was when there is one person, that I call a friend at least, that welcomes me with excitement without any agenda. S/he is excited to see me just for the sake of seeing me… that’s my home. That theory is incomplete.
I used to think that Ponpon is my home. I am just right when I have him on my lap. As simple as it sounds… That belief is incomplete. I am home at Burning Man and Pon is not with me.
I used to think that if my belongings are in one location, that location is my home. It is totally incorrect. I don’t have any personal belongings in Turkey. Turkey is still my home. I don’t have any belongings at Burning Man, it is still my home.
At this age, I believe having close family ties are a choice. Noone in my family, both close and distant family, have to like me. They can choose not to like me. I should be ok if anyone in my family doesn’t like me. It doesn’t mean that they are rude or they are kind. I give everyone, including my blood family, the choice of not to like me. (I mean I don’t tell them, but I give that permission to myself not to be liked) I always feel very welcomed in my immediate and extended family and in my stepmother’s family. It is so home when my dad comes to pick me up from the other side of the city to the airport. It is so endearing when he passes a loaded “Istanbul card” or my stepmom cooks my favourite olive oil vegetable dishes, or when my aunt gets me the best milk’s cream and honey. Ok, they are my blood family. My extended family comes for a tea visit to say “Welcome” and “Good bye” I love it. It feels home from the gecko.
So where is my home? Los Angeles, Park City, Istanbul, Heybeliada, Burning Man, Big Bear, Ponpon?
