Seamus Heaney reminded me that the word "verse" is not only a section of a poem, but the turn that the plough makes in the field as it switches direction.  Words, language, poetry, home; they've all been bound together for me, for better or worse, in the land where I grew up. And maybe it's an anchor, and maybe not.

I've always been fascinated by the colloquial – the local and particular.  Idiom is a jewel in language, like seeing an individual snowflake in a blizzard.  And the distinct meaning of home in each language, the nuance that exists and makes particular the word "home" (English) "baile" (Irish) "casa" (Spanish) is just the tip of that delightful iceberg.

So when I find a particular definition of home, I tend to grab onto it.  This one from John Berger:

 "Without a history of choice, no dwelling can be a home."


"To the underpriviledged, home is represented not by a house, but by a practise or set of practises. Everyone has his own. These practises, chosen and not imposed, offer in their repetition, transient as they may be in themselves, more permanence, more shelter than any lodging. Home is no longer a dwelling but the untold story of a life being lived. At it's most brutal, home is no more than one's name- whilst to most people one is nameless."


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