FINDING HOME BETWEEN THE LINES
As you might imagine, I go through a lot of Post-It flags. When I finish a book, some end up looking like a small bird with its feathers sticking out between the pages. Others may only carry one or two little flags fluttering along the edges. Either way, most of the time I’m marking a single sentence (or sometimes two).
A single sentence that makes me pause. One that nudges me to think—about myself, or about the world at large.
Today’s quote is no different. It comes from Ashley Poston’s novel, The Seven Year Slip (2023):
I’ve always been fascinated by the concept of “home.” Is it a physical place? A state of mind? A feeling of belonging? Is it the people who love us? Or something we learn to create wherever we are?
You might be surprised to find out that I’m not particularly sentimental when it comes to things. I don’t collect many keepsakes, and I don’t believe memories live inside objects. For me, memories live in my senses. A certain smell of pine can instantly deliver me to the shores of Lake Superior (one of my favorite places). A few chords of a song can conjure the image of the boy that took me to prom (so very long ago!). That’s where memory lives for me—not on a shelf.
But I also know that for many people, a talisman or heirloom is the anchor that holds meaning, and I deeply respect that.
My sense of “home” works the same way. It’s never been tied to a specific house or address. It’s conceptual. If I’m with my husband, I’m home. If I’m in a circle of people who make me laugh and breathe easier, I’m home. My shoulders drop, my cortisol dips, and there it is—that unmistakable feeling of belonging.
Fiction explores this idea again and again. Characters wrestle with questions like: Where is home? How do I build it again after a move, a divorce, or a death? How do I recreate a sense of grounding when my physical landscape changes? Stories remind us that “placemaking” isn’t just about geography—it’s about connection.
As you read your current book (or the next one, or five down the line), pay attention to how the characters define (and redefine) “home.” Are they learning to love where they live? Are they resisting the connection to place that is forming? Are they modeling a new way of creating a place for themselves? Are they nearly nomadic, yet always feel connected to something larger?
Maybe their fictional perspective will offer you fresh ideas on what it means to feel at home— whether in your space, in your relationships, or simply in your own skin.
Because in the end, home isn’t just a backdrop. It’s the place where connection, comfort, and self-understanding take root and grow.
So, what is your definition of home? Is it specific or broad?
(hint, hint: journaling about where you feel most at “home” and why is a pretty great—and telling—exercise)
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