A home, permanent or temporary, is not bound solely to the physical space we are occupying. Unless we are forced to flee our home, we can always move our physical physical belongings, but there is something that cannot be moved, something that has to be created anew. What is it? What is “at the heart of the real”? The essence of home is, more than anything, a constellation of relationships, of everyday rituals, of cycles. A feeling of home can materialize in a window from which you observe the world, knowing that your neighbor will go out for a walk at a certain hour, knowing that a tree crown will turn green at a certain time of the year. Longing for your tree crown turn green during these grey, barren winter days.
(softboiled, tiny letters, at the heart of the real)