There are some books, even movies, that you read or watch, and when you do, it feels like coming home. Maybe it's a location, or a book or movie itself. It's always something to cling onto.
This is nothing new, feeling your heart shift in a way you never realized it could until that moment, feeling the ache and pull and absolute longing for that world, feeling the brief echoes of relief throughout your entire body as you immerse yourself again.
I'm going to be unoriginal here, as well as combine books and movies, but my home has always been the Shire in Lord of the Rings. And yes, I've chosen it – if you even can choose that sort of thing – over Hogwarts.
But there's another kind of home that comes from fiction. The first kind, the kind I mentioned above, is the kind that you crave because you know that you belong there. You know that being there would make you happier than you could ever be here.
So the second kind? The second kind is your familiar home. It is your tangible home, because you are living out these metaphors for yourself. They are already the curtains on your windows and the bunched up pillows on your sofa. They are, perhaps, the tired coat you try to shrug your shoulders out of at the end of the day, but can't seem to. Maybe you like these metaphors, this home. Maybe you don't.
For what it's worth, here's my home-not-away-from home:
Uncle Andrew and his study vanished instantly. Then, for a moment, everything became muddled. The next thing Digory knew was that there was a soft green light coming down on him from above, and darkness below. He didn't seem to be standing on anything, or sitting, or lying. Nothing appeared to be touching him. "I believe I'm in water," said Digory. "Or under water." This frightened him for a second, but almost at once he could feel that he was rushing upwards. Then his head suddenly came out into the air and, he found himself scrambling ashore, out on to smooth grassy ground at the edge of a pool.
As he rose to his feet he noticed that he was neither dripping nor panting for breath as anyone would expect after being under water. His clothes were perfectly dry. He was standing by the edge of a small pool - not more than ten feet from side to side in a wood. The trees grew close together and were so leafy that he could get no glimpse of the sky. All the light was green light that came through the leaves: but there must have been a very strong sun overhead, for this green daylight was bright and warm. It was the quietest wood you could possibly imagine. There were no birds, no insects, no animals, and no wind. You could almost feel the trees growing. The pool he had just got out of was not the only pool. There were dozens of others - a pool every few yards as far as his eyes could reach. You could almost feel the trees drinking the water up with their roots. This wood was very much alive. When he tried to describe it afterwards
Digory always said, "It was a rich place: as rich as plumcake."
The strangest thing was that, almost before he had looked about him, Digory had half forgotten how he had come there. At any rate, he was certainly not thinking about Polly, or Uncle Andrew, or even his Mother. He was not in the least frightened, or excited, or curious. If anyone had asked him "Where did you come from?" he would probably have said, "I've always been here." That was what it felt like - as if one had always been in that place and never been bored although nothing had ever happened. As he said long afterwards, "It's not the sort of place where things happen. The trees go on growing, that's all."
- The Magician's Nephew by C.S. Lewis, chapter three: "The Wood Between the Worlds"
Do you have fictional homes – and not so fictional ones?
