A Home Within a Home

You were riding your bike to the sound of “It’s No Big Deal”
And you’re trying to lift off the ground on those old two wheels
Nothing about the way that you were treated ever seemed especially alarming ’til now
So you tie up your hair and you smile like it’s no big deal

You can let it go
You can throw a party full of everyone you know
And not invite your family, ’cause they never showed you love
You don’t have to be sorry for leaving and growing up, mmh

Matilda, you talk of the pain like it’s all alright
But I know that you feel like a piece of you’s dead inside
You showed me a power that is strong enough to bring sun to the darkest days
It’s none of my business, but it’s just been on my mind

You can let it go
You can throw a party full of everyone you know
And not invite your family, ’cause they never showed you love
You don’t have to be sorry for leaving and growing up

You can see the world, following the seasons
Anywhere you go, you don’t need a reason
‘Cause they never showed you love
You don’t have to be sorry for doing it on your own

You’re just in time, make your tea and your toast
You framed all your posters and dyed your clothes, ooh
You don’t have to go
You don’t have to go home
Oh, there’s a long way to go
I don’t believe that time will change your mind

Matilda. Harry Styles

(April 2019)

“I must have been about seven when I decided to run away from home for the first time. I got my red-checkered cloth rucksack with the fake leather trim, packed a snack-sized can of fruit cocktail and a spoon from the kitchen, careful not to make any noise. The house was quiet. Mittagsruhe, midday silence and rest. A German peculiarity and sacred in our family. 

I carefully wheeled the orange folding bike out of the garage (Don’t scratch the car!) and started to pedal. Began climbing the hill ahead of me, eyes on the road, mind on the snack. How far did I want to go? How far could I go until someone would notice? How far did I have to go before I could stop for a break and eat my delicious snack? The top of the hill seemed like a good destination. 

The ride on the bike with its awkward frame and tiny wheels was cumbersome. The fact that I had to pedal backwards to shift into the lower gear took away from what little momentum I had going forward. I inched my way up the ascending road, slowly passing barren autumn fields on my right, leaving rows of grey apartment buildings on the left behind me.

After what seemed like an eternity, I finally reached the top of the hill.  A weathered wooden bench on the side of the road, framed by two towering trees, dark and leafless against the grey sky. A good place to stop and have a rest. 

I never made it any further that day. Maybe I stayed on that lonely bench on the hill a little longer. Probably not. What must have felt like forever away from home had only been minutes. I packed up my finished snack, got on my orange folding bike, and descended the steep road I had climbed.

Small bicycle wheels turning faster and faster, feet off the pedals, my familiar neighbourhood flying by, cool November air in my hair. Freedom that felt eternal only lasted a short little while. Downhill all the way, my eyes teary from the wind, I could hardly see.

Until I reached my home. I returned the bike to its original spot in the garage (Don’t scratch the car!) and went back inside. The house remained silent. No one had noticed my absence. No one had been looking for me. No one witnessed the sad smile on my face. It was always about the journey. Never about the destination.”

My first blog post. Written in April 2019. I had just received a job offer from the German School in Sydney and decided that I wanted to share the exciting news by writing about it. And so I did. Wrote about a childhood memory that suddenly came to mind. A bike. Two wheels. Lifting off the ground. Leaving my family. Leaving my home. Leaving my house.

My house. Harry’s House. English songwriter and fan-favourite, Harry Styles, is in town. I had a ticket, and then I didn’t. Gave it to my friend to go with her daughter. Everyone remembers their first concert – for the right or the wrong reasons. Mine was Kool & the Gang in 1985 for 5 US dollars. Hers was going to be Harry Styles at the Sydney Olympic Stadium for a few more dollars than that. But I was sure that she would remember her first concert for the rest of her life. And not only because it was Harry!

So instead of putting on my feather boa and joining the over 80,000 pink-and-white-clad hysterical fans, I listened to his songs from the comfort of my little granny flat (Do people also remember their very last concert? Was I getting old?). I knew I wanted to write about “Home” and so I decided to see if good old Harry had anything to say about it. And did he ever!

When writing a blog post, I usually have an idea. Or a story to tell. Some pictures. Or I do some research on a topic that interests me. Sometimes there’s absolutely nothing and my creative mind goes blank. But sometimes there’s like a spark, an idea, and it all comes together all at once and seems to make perfect sense – at least to me.

Matilda was one of the songs on Harry’s newest album,  “Harry’s House”. Inspired by a friend who was going through tough times, Styles wrote the song to show he listened; Sometimes it’s just about listening. I hope that’s what I did here. If nothing else, it just says, ‘I was listening to you. Not only exercising empathy, but the lyrics also hold an empowering message of choosing your own life and happiness, and later on in the song, choosing your own family. 

And that was exactly what I wanted to write about! Coincidence? I listened to the lyrics, and it hit me: the opening line of the song, mirroring my very first blog post, almost seemed too good to be true. Harry and I – soulmates? I wouldn’t mind. Not sure how he would feel about it, though. 

But back to the concept of home. What was home? What was my home? And family? Being here in Sydney on a two-year visa, people often ask me if I’ll go back home when my contract is done in 2024. To be honest, I never quite know what to answer. For one, I don’t know what will be in a year’s time. Will I want to stay? Will I have had enough of this place? Will I still fit in at home? And what is my home? What will it be by then? Australia? Canada? Germany? Home is where the heart is, they say. Or where you put your hat, as Paul Young once sang. I usually lose my hats. I try not to read too much into that!

“Home is a safe haven and a comfort zone. A place to live with our families and pets and enjoy with friends. A place to build memories as well as a way to build future wealth. A place where we can truly just be ourselves. And whether our houses are big, small, fancy or modest, they are our shelters and our sanctuaries.” 

I believe that a person can have more than one home. More than one place in their life where they feel safe and comfortable. I believe that homes can change over a course of a lifetime. That you can feel at home at several places at once. Or nowhere at all. 

Germany feels like home because that’s where my first memories were made – like the one of me running away from home on a small orange bike. Memories of fries with mayonnaise on lazy Sunday afternoons. Going swimming with my dad early in the morning, the water so hot that the steam was rising to the grey sky. Memories of spending my entire allowance on Italian ice cream. Of walking to school. Stealing candles from church (I confess). Memories of the house I grew up in. Of my family. With time, these memories fade. The family gets smaller. Places slowly disappear. Someone else living in our childhood home. My school is no longer a school. The doors of the church are locked (I wonder why?). 

Home is movement. Home is a transitional state. The artist Do Ho Suh once said: “What I am really interested in, in terms of architecture, is transitional spaces – the space that leads you to your destination, rather than the destination.” Germany led to France, led to Hong Kong, and led to Canada. The home within the home within the home. In one of his paintings, the artist draws a person carrying several houses on top of one another on his head. “Home is what we carry with us”, he says. The picture to me represents my idea of home perfectly. My home in Germany. My home in Canada, where my children are. My home in Australia, where I can truly be myself. My home within my home within my home. Sometimes having more than one place that feels like home can be a blessing, and sometimes a bit of a curse. 

On my daily walk to the beach, I pass a large plaque on the side of the path entitled “Living Between Two Worlds”. This week I stopped for the first time to read the information given on the white withered board. Rock platforms, so the plaque reads, are the dynamic edge between two worlds – the land and the sea. They are magic places and the home of many animals. Including me.

So, if you ask me: What is home? I would answer: It’s a magical place between here and there. Between Canada and Australia. Between the land and the sea. “Home as both a physical structure and lived experiences, the boundaries of identity and the connection between the individual and the group across global cultures. “(Do Ho Suh) 

Home is not a final destination, it is all those in-between places of life. Like that lonely bench on the hill where I stopped as a child to have my fruit snack. Before it was time to get back on my orange bike to return home.