The definition, like that of “family,” can be complex and elusive.

I’m looking at home as someplace much more than where I sleep at night or eat the majority of my meals. It’s more than a house or an apartment or even a tent, for that matter, even though for much of my life, my address has felt more like an encampment before I arrive, well, at what’s truly home.

The Biblical sense of sojourning matches much of what I’ve experienced, pro and con.

Think of a sense of comfort, for one thing, and belonging, for another. Not everyplace I’ve dwelled has measured up there. Rental units have always had limitations on how much you can personalize the space, even to the exclusions on painting the walls. And who knows what happens when the rents or lease go up.

As much as my native geography and its character are imprinted on my soul, the house I grew up in isn’t. How curious. As for family? I’ve now spent the majority of my life on the Eastern Seaboard, mostly New England. Four years in the Pacific Northwest were especially transformative. Yet deep down, I’m still a Midwesterner, though one now amazed almost daily by the movements of an ocean close at hand.

The place I’ve lived longest is Dover, New Hampshire, in an 1890s’ house that’s appeared often in this blog. As “home,” it had shortcomings, but it was where I built my own family, did some very serious writing and revising, ate marvelous food we had raised in our garden, delighted in some extraordinary neighbors (especially Tim and Maggie), delighted in the parties and guests we hosted, and thought I would spend my final moments within. Well, I almost did – but that’s another post or two. As I told the kids when we moved in, I would be in a pine box when I left.

Not that my plotline wound up following that course. It might have, actually, if my elder beloved daughter-slash-stepdaughter hadn’t whisked me off to the emergency room in time for a cardio-stent.

Back to the bigger story. As I retired from the office, it became clear we needed to downsize. I won’t go into details, but my elder daughter/stepdaughter (those distinctions blend for me but not everyone – room for many future blog posts) fell in love with a remote fishing village at the other end of Maine. And then, so did her mother. My introductions to the place were positive, but even though I had begun some intense decollecting and downsizing, and was well ahead of the others on that front, there was still a long way to go. Besides, I was in the midst of a major writing project and knew how long it would take to get back in gear if I packed up in the midst.

Even so, after a few furtive efforts, we bid on a property that had been for sale forever and were accepted. I was promptly dispatched to keep an eye on the place – essentially, as a writer’s retreat.

It needed, to put things succinctly, tons of work. But somehow, it’s felt more like home than anyplace else I’ve dwelled. As you’ll see.