Once again, we come to the Holiday Season, a deeply religious time that each of us observes, in his own way, by going to the mall of his choice.
- Dave Barry
This year has presented many firsts for me, but one quite recently-my first Christmas away from home. It was an interesting experience, and lead to some realizations about myself, and about tradition, and about home.
As many of you reading this blog might remember, I was
home in November for about ten days. In addition, I'm contemplating going home for an entire month in late spring (I have one friend getting married at the end of May and a pair of friends getting married at the end of June). Given both these things, it simply made no sense for me to go home for Christmas-I lacked both the time and the money.
I should stop for a moment here and clarify what Christmas means to me. You see, I grew up in a non-religious household, so Christmas doesn't have that "birth of our Lord" feeling that it does for many. But the lack of religious/spiritual significance is not meant to underscore a lack of importance. For me, Christmas was a time of tradition, a time of family. It was the time when-as clichéd as I know this will sound-the rest of life just slowed down so I could be with those people who matter the most. So, it's quite a strange feeling to miss out on that togetherness.
In the end, I spent the time in-between Christmas and New Years with three of my friends' families. Jon offered to take me in for Christmas itself, something I gratefully accepted. So, I went down to his from the 24th-26th. His parents own a pub, which was open Christmas Eve day and Boxing Day, plus Christmas day until dinner time. I had a lovely Christmas dinner with his family and friends, played some quiz games and got far drunker than I'd intended to on Christmas Day. Partly Jon's fault-drinking games should never be invented and implemented on days when I'd intended to stay sober. Still, it was a great time, and I'm eminently grateful to his family for making me feel so welcome on Christmas. My parents also called me on the day, so I was able to at least speak with them on Christmas, which was nice.
On the 26th, Jon and I drove up to Richard's parents' new place, where we met up with Siv and Christian. This new place is absolutely stunning. Though located in the exact geographic middle of nowhere, it is a truly expansive, opulent estate situated on lovely rolling hills and very picturesque forests. The house itself has wonderful high ceilings, many bed and bathrooms, and is just all-around a wonderful stately home. We five friends, along with Richard's parents, had a lovely dinner and then Christian departed. Siv, Jon, and I spent the night then we, plus Richard played with his dog and ran around the huge yard, generally acting like silly children. It was great.
I was back in Manchester for the evening of the 27th, then off to Jim's on the 28th. I was able to get some long-overdue boxing-week shopping done on the morning of the 28th, which is nice because I now own clothes that fit properly (as a result of losing some weight, many of my clothes were ridiculously large). At Jim's, we basically just chilled. Played some Mario Kart, pool and Darts, he taught me some of the basics of poker, which I then implemented in a mini-tournament with him and some of his friends (coming second out of the six of us and won £10), and we played his Star Trek 3D chess set, which was deliciously nerdy. I lost.
I was back in Manchester on the 30th, and went to Fairfield Hall, where I lived last year, for New Years. They do a free party every year, with an open bar. It was fun and sloppy, but otherwise unremarkable. I'm glad I did that, though-I've never understood the point of clubbing on New Years-you pay 5 times as much as a normal night for a night of clubbing that's largely undifferentiable from any other club night. Why bother? House party with friends, or small party with a free open bar is the way to go.
So now, as is my wont, let me delve briefly into the philosophical. Because, being away from my family this Christmas brought an interesting issue to the surface for me: the idea of "home". Because you see, something strange happened to me while I was in undergrad: I lost the concept of feeling "at home". I'd grown up in the thriving metropolis of
Dundas, and archetypal small-town North American suburb if ever there was one, and it always felt like home when I was growing up. I knew people, I knew the area, I felt... comfortable. But after a few years in
Guelph for uni, Dundas wasn't really home any more. I'd be there for the odd weekend, but it felt more and more like I was visiting. And while Guelph was where I lived, and felt like it was my place, it never captured that essence of "home" that Dundas had had. This is partly because I moved a lot-in my five years in uni, I lived in no less than
nine different houses, and while I was comfortable in many of them, they never captured that quintessential feeling of being home.
George Carlin, the preeminent American comic, draws the distinction between a house and a home when he speaks of the homeless. He says, quite rightly, that the problem such people have isn't their lack of a
home; it's the lack of a
house. They need a roof over their heads more than anything. But this is the bare minimum. This distinction belies the importance we place on our sense of belonging, and it is this sense that ultimately makes a home. If, as the cliché says, home is where the heart is, it is because our sense of who we are relies partly on our being at peace with ourselves, and with our surroundings. And no set of surroundings is more intimate than that which we call our home. Our home is an extension of who we are-it reflects our values; our strengths and failings; our desires and realities.
Nowhere is the absence of home more self-evident than student halls. I lived in halls again last year, simply because it was much easier to arrange a hall of residence from Canada, than a private house. But I hate living in halls. Aside from the mess, the noise and the condescending housing office, halls scream "temporary". You can never really call a hall a home, because it will always be crystal clear that you're just staying there. It's one rung above a hotel room in its ephemeralness-it will never be "your" place, it's just where you stay for awhile. Where I live now is a great flat (muggings and break-ins aside), but it still doesn't feel like my home. It is on par with anywhere I've lived since I started uni, but no better.
I miss the feeling of being home. Manchester feels to me like "my city" now, in the way that Dundas did, and then Guelph. By this I mean, I feel comfortable in the city, I know my way around the main areas, I know people (and have random bump-ins with people I know). But that ethereal concept of "home" is still missing. I don't know what is missing that would complete the picture and provide that elusive feeling, but I hope I find it.
Don't get me wrong-I love where I live, both the city and my flat itself. I love Manchester, I love my friends, and I'm having a great time. I just look forward, with eager anticipation, to the day that I can truly feel that I'm home again.
Home is not where you live but where they understand you.
- Christian Morgenstern
