Every time I walk past my bookshelf I see it – a framed print of a painting titled Evening Song by an artist named Jo Ridge Kelley of Wild Mountain Watercolors based in Waynesville, North Carolina, US.
I didn’t grow up in Waynesville, but once every month and a half or so, my mom, my dad, and my dog, Chance, would pack up a picnic and make the 90-minute drive from Knoxville, Tennessee to Waynesville, North Carolina. My dad would drag us on epic hikes that always featured mountaintop peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, which we all agreed tasted best when eaten on top of a mountain.
Evening Song has travelled with me all the way from North Carolina to Dublin; it’s been stored in boxes, hung on walls, and placed on bookshelves, but wherever it lives, whenever I see it, I can feel it. That gentle glow in the centre of my chest. My actual, physical home isn’t depicted in that painting, it’s not even my hometown, but it is undeniable – that place is a place where I feel home.
When it comes to art, I’m a bit of a magpie. And I don’t limit my collection to prints and trinkets and physical things, because why stop there? In 2019, I went to the Edinburgh Fringe Festival and saw 42 shows in 8 days. (I have the ticket stubs to prove it, lovingly scrapbooked, of course.) I am an avid collector of trips to the ballet, concerts, movie nights, ceramic wall hangings, books, handmade greeting cards, iPhone photos of street art. The list goes on.
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I was born in Florida, grew up in Tennessee, and moved to Ireland fresh out of college. I had a degree in French studies with a certificate in creative writing, almost enough credits for a minor in vocal performance, and not a notion of what to do with any of that. Was I into the arts? Yes. Did I harbour a deep ambition to be a Broadway and West End star? Also yes. But did I think that the arts were a viable career path?
To my unending surprise, it turned out that the answer was yes. And not only a career path but a lifeline. Working in the arts has allowed me to make amazing things with amazing people, but beyond that, it has been a constant source of comfort, of friendship, and yes, of home. The Irish arts sector welcomed me with open arms and made me one of their own.
When I look at Evening Song or Facebook reminds me of that time my friends and I went to Electric Picnic, I’m reminded of the people and experiences that have co-written the chapters of my life thus far. These things I hoard, tangible and intangible, are miniature portals to all the various times and places I have felt a sense of home.
I think that those of us who were born in one place and settled in another would probably agree – home can be singular and plural. It can be 4,178 miles away and right here where I’m sitting writing this.
It’s not the prettiest comparison, but I think, like snails, we carry home with us, wherever we go. In the baubles on our shelves, the paintings on our walls, and the moments that shape us.
I’ll leave you with the most recent addition to my treasure trove – Hold Tight by Erin Fornoff – in the hope that you can add it to your own collection of things that connect you to that feeling of hope, of being whole. Of home.
Hillary Dziminski is a multidisciplinary creative working across theatre, film, and live events. She is the marketing & social media manager for the To Be Irish initiative.
Erin Fornoff will perform Hold Tight at the “Back Home” Christmas Concert at EPIC Museum in Dublin this evening, December 21st, at 8pm. Tickets are free and available here: tobeirish.ie
Hold Tight by Erin Fornoff
the bus window cold against your forehead. Pack a sandwich
for the train because it doesn’t do tea anymore.
Hold tight to the coloured lights studding the darkness,
Strung up from ladders tipped in grey daylight, a promise kept every year,
Look up at the same stars like an acknowledgement
that we’ve been here before
and before and before again and we must
hold tight to these bags, one of slightly battered gifts and one of laundry,
wrestle them into the house that smells of home
the old teenage posters on the bedroom wall,
the old local exhaling steam into the cold night.
But don’t hold too tight to all the trappings, because
We don’t love these Christmas songs so much as hearing them means we’re together
the muffled soundtrack of a full house,
someone up early in the kitchen with the kettle on
You are the present in wrinkled wrapping from a long journey,
You are the roar that rises from the back table when we walk in,
You are the hand we hold tight across an absence,
and you are the absence in the empty chair
and this much is true
It is not what we do but that we get to do it with you
These things we hold tight to,
I want to get in the way in the kitchen
I want to argue with my uncles about politics
I want to sit and watch TV with you and not talk.
I want to wear pyjamas until after lunch,
Holding tight, for you are so close and I love you so much
Oh, hold tight, we’re at final boarding, we’re nearly there,
We’re the next stop, hold tight, we’re cresting the hill on the last mile,
Hold tight, we can nearly see the lights, we’ve come so far
Hold tight, hold tight, we are almost home to where you are
