I visited my cousin and his family recently. They’re a gorgeous couple with three boys, two of whom were home to eat with us. Tall, gangly boys in their early teens who were happy to chat with us.
I asked how long they had lived in this long, narrow house set back from a corner. Fifteen years, the answer.
I sometimes feel envious of people who have established these long, deep roots, creating a home over years. It’s not something I’ve done—not yet anyway. The longest I’ve lived anywhere was the house by the river in South Australia—nine years. At the end of the ninth year, I finished my schooling, hopped on a plane and went on exchange, never to return to the river house. Since then, seven years has been the longest I’ve lived in the same house.
As I write, I’m sitting in the beautiful light-filled lounge room of the home of one of my oldest friends. She’s lived here for about 15 years too. She and her family have kindly let us stay here whilst they’re away—house and pet sitting is how we can stay in Australia for four months this trip, something our finances otherwise wouldn’t cover for such an extended stay.
These homes, loved and lived-in, have developed over the years. They’re a reflection of their inhabitants—their tastes and style, their hobbies, the changes in their lives. It’s a sneak peek into a world one usually has a quick glimpse of as you pop around for a cuppa or a meal.
For me, the long, deep roots that people have grown are something foreign yet also coveted. To have deep knowledge of neighbours and the neighbourhood. To look back on the “before” photos of a home and see how it’s grown and changed over decades. To remember the moments, and the celebrations shared in a space that so is clearly the occupiers’. I’ve had this feeling for a short time (is seven years short?), but I’m so curious to know what it feels like to have a long-time home, like a beloved coat, still wrapped around you after you enter a new decade.
On Åland, I often marvel at how deep people’s roots grow. Multiple generations of families in the same villages, and houses passed down through bloodlines. It’s not part of my family’s experience, with each generation here in the colonised country of Australia, selling their homes, moving, downsizing, or trying new adventures in other states or parts of the country. There’s no family home, just memories, like that of my beloved grandmother’s house with big gum trees, underfloor heating and a pianola. There’s no house to take over. No village grudges either.
But maybe it’s our Western society’s obsession with possession that feeds into this. When I think of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander’s connection with the land and landscape, a few paltry hundred years pales in comparison to their 60,000-year custodianship. They’ve shown me that home can be a landscape. It doesn’t have to be four walls and a window. It doesn’t have to be rooms filled with things.
Home can be the shape of a branch. The way bark falls from a trunk. A garland of red on a flowering gum. The warble of a magpie. The laugh of a kookaburra. It’s the scent of eucalyptus as you tread on a carpet of leaves. Sensory experiences that live on in your memory but can become part of future generations’ memories—if we take care of these beautiful natural things.
The term “growing roots” is interesting—taking a wonderful natural image of deep roots growing deep into the ground. I think humans have always known forests were special. Magic places where trees speak to one another. Of course, now we know they do. Even supporting each other during tough times through an amazing network of roots and mycelium. Imagine relying on fungi. An incredible symbiotic relationship humans find difficult to replicate.
Could we emulate the forests? Sharing resources, as we support those who need it, in turn receiving support when that time arises. Interesting to contemplate and perhaps heading towards communistic sentiments but I somehow imagine something less bleak, softer, more heart-centred.
So maybe I’ve talked myself out of my coveting of family homes and long family histories rooted in a house. After all, a house can be destroyed, perhaps more easily than a landscape. Humans have done this too, shaping and forcing the landscapes around us to fit some idea of what we think it should look like, all depending on your experiences, influences, and tastes. So maybe we like to change after all.
There’s something to be said about experiencing many changes within one’s lifetime. And more than a fresh coat of paint. Moving—to new spaces and places. It takes an energy that maybe not everyone thinks they have. It means getting rid of the “stuff” that those with deep roots collect. It’s a lighter way of living, requiring thought about what you buy and collect.
As I sit, contemplate, ponder, and wonder, I’m also preparing for the next phase of our trip—a flight to Bowen, Queensland, the furthest north I will have ever been in Australia. A warm, humid, coastal town near the Great Barrier Reef. Then on to Adelaide, my old stomping ground, a place where I feel very much at home.
I’m looking forward to the wide streets, the huge gum trees at the park near my mum’s, the long, sandy beaches and gentle waves of Adelaide beaches. All the while, thinking of home thousands of kilometres away, our little apartment on Main Street in Mariehamn.
I think home can be anywhere you want it to be. Where eucalyptus-scented trees grow, or birch forests whisper, or where the curve of a branch looks like it could hug you. Perhaps even where you lay your hat.
Stay Well,
Lisa x
A Question:
What is home to you? Are you someone with deep roots? Or have you moved around?
A Poem:
A Place to Lay Your Hat — written by me in 2020
A Book Recommendation:
I’m currently reading Question 7 by Richard Flannagan, a book from my mum for Christmas. It’s beautifully written, interesting in form, and worth checking out.
And THIS!
Stephen Fry has joined Substack! He even records his posts so you can hear his wonderful voice.
Lovely, Lisa — and wow about Stephen Fry!
Lovely thoughtful piece Lisa!
This piece makes me think about my roots. Perhaps I should explore this in writing. I have recently moved, out of necessity, from the family home my husband and I lived in for 33 of the 54 years we were married. His illness and death created so many changes for me to navigate as a senior. I’m still attempting to come to grips with it all. I downsized, again out of necessity, from 54 years of ‘stuff’ housed in a 4 bedroom home to be now living in a 1000 square foot place. I have less indoor space but much more outdoor space to garden and enjoy, complete with perennial gardens. I’ll enjoy a little greenhouse and I’ll be creating a couple of new raised veggie and herb gardens.
The memories are still with me, both good and bad. Stuff has been dramatically reduced and I can honestly say I am fine with less stuff. It’s just stuff. I am now attempting to create a new life, a new home and new memories. For me, home can be created anywhere! It’s a place where I feel safe, can hang my hat and continue living life.