“I can’t remember why I left so free, what I wanted to do, what I wanted to see, but I can sure remember where I come from.”
-Hazel Dickens “West Virginia, My Home”
Home is where your people are, where you feel a deep abiding sense of peace, where you rest; it can be anywhere. I’ve always said that and I’ve always believed in the intangibility of home. But I also have a decidedly strong connection to a physical place, the beautiful hills of home. I wasn’t able to travel back to West Virginia this week (and there are definitely days I can’t remember why I left) but I always do know where I come from. And perhaps because it is a literal place, the lovely physical keepsakes that I hold close to me are one way I stay connected to where I come from.
My uncle recently let me have my paternal grandmother’s old singer sewing machine. My mom gave me a fringe twister for my last birthday (because I’ve become obsessed with these little bamboo scarves). Add one of the handmade lamps my Papaw gave me years ago, and you have my homey finishing spot. (That’s my grandma as a little girl by the way:)
I come from people who made things with their hands. I’m home when I make things with my own.