I once wrote a line for a tiny history story, about someone from the village i grew up in. A man shaped by the land and sea, the kind of person who seems inseparable from the place they live.
I wrote:
“His eyes familiar with vastness, his soul rooted in the land where he was born —
this is where his heart lives.”
At the time, I believed I was writing about someone else. A character.
Only later, reading the words again, I realised: I was writing about myself.
There’s a strange kind of truth that lives in what we create. It bypasses logic. It moves quietly. It knows before we do. And when it surfaces — when we recognise ourselves in our own words — it feels like remembering something we never consciously knew.
This land, where I was born, has always been with me. Even when I was far away. Even when I thought I had outgrown it.
Now, with the start of restoring this old farmhouse — slowly, lovingly — I feel that same quiet recognition.
A knowing. A returning.
Maybe this is what home really is. Not just a place on a map, but a feeling that lives in the body. Something the soul remembers, even when the mind forgets.
And so I begin this blog not with answers, but with a question: What is the place where your soul lives?