Whenever certain species of birds feel their home is threatened, whether by an onslaught of storm that pummels their windswept thickets, or a callous raccoon with bared fangs, they flee below, into their beloved tree, seeking refuge in its roots. I’m sure there’s an extensive list of other creatures that like to retreat into their homes – bats and insects, to name just a few. I would say similar animals, although not commonly included in this classification, are humans. 

While we don’t literally bury ourselves into the concrete of our walls (obviously), do we not yearn to bandage our hearts with the solace of, “home” at the first sign of change? The metaphorical, “home” I refer to is not the one composed of brick or clay, but instead is this longing for the comfort of what we once had and cherished, pieces of ourselves and our hearts; our roots from which everything else stems from. 

This feeling is what inspires us to reread the same book for the umpteenth time, to call someone we love in the middle of the night so we can hear their voice, and why we replay songs we heard long ago to, for just an instant, be teleported to another time. It’s what would lead a chef to keep preparing a family dish from her grandmother, even if its customers were few, and its cost was high, and it’s what lead the 18th century Romantics, amidst the turmoil of a new way of life, to yearn for visions of a supposedly beautiful Middle Ages. 

All of that being said, for me and many others, “home” is only partly metaphorical. Many summers ago, two days before my sixth birthday, my mom, my dad, and a very reluctant me said goodbye to our house in Fox River Grove, IL, to move to a new one in San Diego, CA. Legend goes that my dad had bought the house on a whim, during a call with his realtor while out to buy milk. My dad’s new job that we had moved for collapsed within two months, but nevertheless, we stayed there for seven more years. 

In a shockingly symmetrical play of fate, years later, my mom, my dad, and a (still) reluctant me said goodbye to our house in San Diego, CA, two days after my thirteenth birthday, to move back to the very same house we lived in all those years ago. If you were to ask my mom her thoughts on moving back, she would tell you “it feels like coming back home!” And for her, perhaps it was, after living in Fox River Grove for over 22 years. As for me, my most recent memories of the place were from when I was five years old, so I would tell you quite the opposite. 

In the following months, and even now to a lesser extent, a wave of homesickness enveloped me. I missed my friends, the familiar streets, how beautiful the mist in our garden floated at sunrise, the palm trees, even the lizards that I was terrified of for six out of the seven years (I never thought I would say that), and the little memories that I thought I could never experience again in this strange land of unfamiliar people and foreign foliage. 

The one thing I missed most was the Gurudwara (a religious center for Sikhs). The San Diego Gurudwara was a former cathedral; whenever I recall it, I see flashes of velvet carpets; the people, all of whom I knew if not by name, then by face; and a huge well which never seemed to contain water. I hear melodic chanting, music drifting in and out the building from the organs in the garage, and, from memories alone, I smell the faint aroma of a piping lentil soup – dal. Over the years, the Gurudwara taught me, in a seven-year-long course (a very lucky coincidence), Punjabi history, religion, how to speak, read, and write Punjabi, as well as all the values I hold in my heart. However, from the very first day, and to the very last, it taught me music. 

The harmonium is an Indian instrument that could be described as a mix between a piano and an accordion. It contains keys like a piano, but a bluish-purplish (generally) hand-pump at the back. Silver and golden knobs at the front are used as tuners. In the Gurudwara, you were taught notations, classical theory, and the centuries-old poetry which is sung along with the harmonium, by volunteers after classes, in small, close groups. 

My first year in Illinois was my last year of middle school, and the second (this year) is my first year of high school. As I navigated through these new places, especially in high school with ever-growing homework and responsibilities, I couldn’t help but feel more and more distant from myself and “home.” Subsequently,  this feeling of homesickness became increasingly apparent once again. 

In the past two years, the harmonium for me has become an embodiment of the concept of “home,” so during eighth grade and early in the fall semester of high school, I tried a few, half-hearted attempts to make time for playing the harmonium once again. The failure of these attempts I’ve now realized was not because of a lack of desire, but due to both a fear that I wouldn’t feel as joyful playing it as I did in San Diego, and also an unpleasant wave of homesickness whenever I did. 

By the end of first semester, however, I learned to love Illinois and high school in their own way. I also realized just how many beautiful memories had occurred here, which I never even noticed because I always compared it to San Diego. This year, I hope to consistently play harmonium again, not as a way to feel exactly as I did in the past, but to blend it with now as well. 

“Why should anyone be afraid of change? What can take place without it? What can be more pleasing or more suitable to universal nature? Can you take your bath without the firewood undergoing a change? Can you eat without the food undergoing a change? And can anything useful be done without change? Don’t you see that for you to change is just the same, and is equally necessary for universal nature?” –Marcus Aurelius