In honor of the launch of ISSUE 3: HOME, we challenged you to the following on our Instagram (@themessyheads):
We are sharing our home with you in Issue 3, and we want to hear about yours. Repost any of these photos (or any from our account) and talk about a Place, Person, Or Feeling that brings you home.
Hashtag it #mymessyhome and tag us @themessyheads so we can find it. We will be reposting on the story all day and putting up a collective blog post later this week. Share your home with us.
Here are some standout submissions.
@_sooky my home has been red dirt, gum trees and scarce summer rain on a tin roof. It has been the bush and isolation, suffocating distance. Then it was the beach and the city, a blonde brick house where i became a woman and cried a lot. A shelter for my blossoming self. Then i left that behind and now home is a small ground floor apartment, where noisy trams go by at 3am. Home is what my partner and i have created, a cocoon of blue walls and warmth. A nest of love and relief from the bustling city this country girl has found herself in. It’s our creation and i never want to leave.
Just as our body is a home for the soul, our space is a home for the body. I always find home when I have created space for my soul to feel open and free. I arrive in practicing self love, surrounding myself with good friends, cooking healthy foods, spending time in nature and on my yoga mat. Home is where you find the truth within yourself.
My second home smells like peaches, coconuts and sunscreen; it tastes like cherries, peanuts, and chlorinated pool water; it sounds like cicadas and thunderstorms, the nightly weather report; it feels like slick paving stones, wet dog fur, a hot leather car seat, and thin bed sheets.
The sound of your grandparents favourite newscaster or late night talk show host; the taste of their favourite flavour of Minute-Maid lemonade—from the Sniders where you had to buy heavy-duty painkillers when you got that inconvenient vacation earache last summer, and where the elderly couple gave you a disapproving look for your Bernie Sanders t-shirt.
A musty, damp basement that you are still slightly terrified of but are old enough now to explore on your own, venturing underground to rifle through the generation-spanning record collection and take a moment of reflection.
A trip to the local farmers market at 9am; and the rest of the morning spent lounging on the coffee-stained futon in the kitchen reading the Sunday comics and attempting the crossword together—but grandma is the one with all the answers.
I decided in January that my New Years resolution would be not to use the word “home” anymore, at least in context of the building I live in. A home should mean everything to you. The cluttered little house on the end of the cul de sac meant nothing to me. Since then I’ve been trying to find my home, that feeling of safety and happiness, content but not complacency everyone seems to be able to return to. I haven’t yet. But I have a list on my phone I add to daily of all people and things that make me feel almost like home. Home is almost the smell of oil paints and the warmth of the sun spilling through the windows on the 6th floor. Home is almost drinking orange juice in champagne glasses and dancing around the kitchen to bubblegum pop. Home is almost the buzzing sound you can only hear standing up with your head out the moonroof as the car whizzes past streetlights. Home is almost ink bleeding through the tiny creases in my palm as I doodle a whole universe in my hands.
Home is waking up to the crisp Bay Area fog covering the air like a blanket, stretching through the rolling hills and across the city’s skylines. Home is walking the lengths of Lake Merritt every morning rushing to get work, smiling at strangers and feeling a sense of comfort when they smile back. Home is driving down the pothole infested, narrow roads of Oakland, the same roads I once ran down as a kid to get to school. It’s the Black Lives Matter signs in the homes of people I will never know, and pride flags flying high on city hall. Home is progressive, it’s familiar, and it has molded my every being.
When I think about my home the first thing I think of is in my small room. Pictures of friends and family taped on the walls, the smell of lavender incense and everything in it that’s mine. Where everything has a spot that I chose and everything is always the same. That’s suppose to be my home and part of it is, but then I start to think about what home really means to me and realize my home is so much more then that. Home is alone in the darkness with my friend silence. Home is in a loud room filled with people I love. Home is in my family. Home is in laughter, tears and nights spent arguing. Home is in a sunset or at the beach. Home is in the ocean, feeling the tide’s sway. Home is written in the stars at night. Home is in the streets of Manhattan, where everyone’s too busy to notice this lost girl drifting through the crowds, in love with everything she sees. Home is the guy at the bagel shop or the guy that delivers my take out. Home is in the chaos and love in between the chaos. Home is late nights spent with friends and train rides to the city. My home is in my heart and yours, up on a stage or in the familiar faces at school. It’s not a person, place or thing. It’s confusing and invisible, but home is everything. It’s a feeling, a state of being. It’s the sunlight coming through my blinds to wake me up in the morning and the moon that reassures me every night. It’s tall skyscrapers and infinite possibilities, infinite love and laughter and tears and dreams. Most people think home is feeling safe but for me home is feeling unsafe. That every moment has a new possibility for me. It’s the heavy feeling I get in my heart every night before I go to sleep, trying not to let the day out of my grasp. It’s the terrifying yet empowering feeling I get every morning when I wake up knowing this day is mine. My home is in everything and everyone who makes it a messy dream come true.
Home for me has never been a place; I have never spent long enough within four walls to become familiar with the rough wooden staircases or white chipped paint and rusted bathtub pipes. Home for me is the smell of rain in the fall and the crunching of leaves beneath my boots. Home is the taste of peaches with its juice making a mess upon my cheeks. Home is the rustling sound of old book pages being devoured for the sixth time. Home is the scratching of the record player telling me that there’s no more songs to be heard, that that chapter is over. Home is the old horror movies and ink stained fingertips. Home is the sun beams warming my being on a cool day. Home is in my sweater paws of my oversized, scratching sweaters. Home is the bonfires in summer. Home is the flickering lights of motel signs and the blinding lights through wet windshields of my car with the smiths playing quietly in the background. Home to me isn’t a foundation. Home to me is a moment in time that makes me feel alive.
I don’t exactly know where home is anymore. Pieces of my heart are scattered across the US, and for all I know probably across the world. But what I do know is that home -wherever it will end up being- feels like a big cozy bed with an oversized dog sprawled at the foot of it. It feels like reading the spines of books I’ve never seen before with my boys hands on my waist. It tastes like warm chai and fresh fruit and sounds like cicadas, or maybe thunderstorms, or maybe simply the sound of Mia’s voice. It feels like warm air rushing through a rolled down window, and mountain air snapping you awake. Home smells like creosote and laundry detergent, but also kind of like the first snow. It feels like that first real breath you take after you’ve been swimming underwater. Home is breathing easy.
Preorder your copy of the mag here!
Thanks to all who participated…Until next time,