My home is here

During the Christmas holidays, I visited the south for the first time in six months. Almost 1000 km away, where in July, I left behind the life I had built until then. Before leaving, a friend asked me if I was heading home for the Christmas break. I answered without even thinking, "No, my home is here. In the north. In Lapland."

The trip south is a long drive. I had plenty of time to reflect on the meaning of home while covering nearly the length of Finland in kilometers.

"Lately, saying 'I'm going home' has meant many different things. I’ve called various places home. When traveling, it can change daily. In recent years, my so-called permanent home, address, and increasingly few belongings have moved from place to place multiple times a year. So many times, in fact, that this year a good friend gave me permission to move just once. During my last move, my sister wondered aloud, 'Where will you move next? Probably Russia—that’s the one place you haven’t tried yet. I wouldn’t be surprised.'

As they say, home is a feeling. Not necessarily a physical place. It’s the feeling of peace, safety, and familiarity, where your mind can rest. Not all of my "real" homes have felt that way, and I notice that when they don’t, I avoid calling them home. On the other hand, I often call a tent pitched in nature for a night or two my home, because it feels like one. The feeling is more important than the physical home.

While thinking about this, I gathered photos from the past and from along the way, of the places I’ve called home. A home might have been a place for one night, or a home for weeks, months, or even years.

Welcome to take a peek into my home—all of them.

When traveling, home can be a five-star hotel.

Or, in the absence of accommodation, a corner of the train station. Here’s breakfast after spending the night at the station.

Home in the tropical jungle.

Home in the hustle and bustle of a megacity

Last summer’s home: a small summer room of just a few square meters at the end of the woodshed served as my home while I waited for my move to Lapland.

The homeless home: a storage unit. I didn’t call it my home, but my belongings might have.

My favorite place in recent years, which I happily call home.

A nature home and its ever-changing conditions.

Home on wheels. Also one of my favorite homes. A similar one will be my home next summer.

A home on wheels allows you to choose the view from your bedroom. This night’s choice was the Norwegian mountains.

A one-night home in Iceland, off the beaten path, accessible only by horseback.

One of my most important and story-rich homes: five months in Kenya, and here is a street from my home village.

A city I called home for many years, but I’m not sure if it ever truly felt like one.

At the moment, my home is here, under the northern sky, in knee-deep snow, sheltered by snow-covered trees, along an unlit road in a small village where I already know many of the residents by their first names. It feels like home, perhaps more than ever before. It feels really good to call the north my home.

♥: Sanna