The period between leaving a place and returning to it marks a specific interval during which your identity undergoes a subtle transformation. It's as if time has woven threads of experience into the fabric of your being. At the same time, such places are no longer the places that we knew them to be. The things are rearranged, and your scent is gone—as if the place has disowned itself from you.

I went back home to the province after nearly a year, just in time for the holiday break. The journey back home was more than a physical trip. The 16-hour bus ride from Quezon City to Bicol was a strenuous loop of fear that going home could evoke a sense of familiarity while grappling with the inevitability of change.

In a snap, I’ve been suddenly propelled from a life of largely insularity to suddenly being surrounded by relatives. And they, too, have changed. More than the dreaded “tumaba ka” remarks, there’s been a noticeable shift in dynamics inside our household. My parents, for one, have been less critical and less caring of what I do—possibly a recognition of my independence and personhood.

The realization that I have outgrown this place is a foregone conclusion. Perhaps this is an intrinsic part of the human condition—permanence is an illusion, and its absence fosters freedom and change.

Continuously staying in the city for nearly a year forced me to handle its cruelty—the heavy traffic, bad air, the exorbitant cost of living—and adapt at the same time. I eventually moved out of my UP dormitory and stayed at a place off-campus just so I could have a bit more separation between school and life. I reconnected more with my lab mates and fellow researchers as peer support in writing my thesis. And the Student Union Building remained a space for Kulê matters.

And so consistently, I carved out spaces that I can call mine, no matter how minute—be it in the lab, in my unit, or in the Collegian office. Especially after a long day, having just a corner sometimes feels like a refuge, a space where I can just lay back, pause, and think in the middle of a taxing day.

“It (home) is where the heart is, but sometimes, also where the ‘asar’ is,” I read in an art exhibit a friend and I viewed at the College of Fine Arts in April. “We can be ourselves, wear our rattiest clothes, make a mess, and just be ‘at home.’” Knowing that home is whatever we call it comforts me.

So while there lingers a sense of alienness in the atmosphere here, the fact remains that I have a home away from the cruel city—even though I only get to see it a couple of days a year. That is the essence of home, after all, regardless of how long and far you’ve been away, you will always be welcomed warmly. The same goes for the people and places I left in the city as I will be back with them once the holidays are over.

Home is not so much about permanence as it is about ownership. It’s not always about claiming a space in our temporal realm, but keeping those that we hold dear most of the time. It’s not the brick-and-mortar of the place. Rather, it is the connections that weave our sanctuaries, regardless of where or with whom our home may be. ●

*Upon reading the curatorial text of Ang Ilustrador ng Kabataan’s “At Home.”