Ok, I admit it. I have been one of those people. A "home hater", if you don't mind me saying. I have suffered dearly with the syndrome for awhile now. The place that I call "home" normally gets a thrashing from my tongue at least once a day. And if it is not verbalized I allow thoughts of revolt to play through my head.
Don't act like you have no idea of the type I speak of (technically writing of). From my own personal experience, I know myself to be unloyal to my home. Willing to betray it at a moments notice. I am constantly plotting and drawing maps of my escape. I have scoured the land in search of an appropriate distance from the place that I now reside. Yes, many elaborate measures have been taken to plan out the escape plan that I now deem as my own.
But, until I can become more diplomatic this does not stop me from commenting on "home" as if it were a dirty, filthy rag that remains attached to me at all times. I scoff at it. Poke fun. Come up with witty banters that I can share with other "home haters". Make up stories about the grass being greener on the other side.
What happened next, I have no explanation for. I have been honest about my feelings, until this point. I went away. I got on a plane and went far far away. And I remained that way for about 11 days. During this extended time crazy things began to happen. I would look at a map and feel twinges of anxiousness. I began to compare and contrast exotic locations to....home. And to my surprise, they were not winning or standing well in the contrast. I began missing things. Simple things. Things I normally made fun of. Routines that my husband and I lament on. Areas that had become common place and dull. I started to miss. And we all know that missing leads to this dull ache that one can not quite explain...but we are fully conscious that it is there. And it was there.
I'm not sure what to make of those eleven days as I softened towards the place I have bantered against. I'm not sure that much of the bantering has or will change as routine sets in. But, it left room for a pause. What is "home"? What does it really mean? What does it consist of? And I doubt "home" is the same for everyone. As cheesy as the old saying goes: "Home is where the heart is". I find some truth in that. When you are gone for a long time where is the one place that tugs at your sleeve? The one place that when you are sick you want to run back to. What place has become a comfort that you might not even recognize but you carry it around anyways? Home holds an element of consistency (as much as it can) and even the foulest hater of routine learns that home, in all of it's repetitive nonsense, becomes the double-edged sword that we can not fully escape.