It’s Wednesday afternoon. Outside, the sky is an opaque grey, and rain darkens the pavement. Victoria Street’s auburn walkways glisten amidst bustling wet feet. Some trees have begun the progression into gold and rust but are unhurried. It’s still early March, yet Autumn trembles around the day’s edges, imbuing dawn and dusk with a fresh chill.
I have just finished teaching a class. The rest of the afternoon stretches before me in a languid promise. I could go to the library and start working on some distant deadlines, or I could go home, make tea, take the evening to cook something from scratch and finish reading the novel I’m busy with for my thesis. Obviously, I yield to the beckoning of my warm little apartment.
From the Arts and Social Sciences faculty, I make my way down Ryneveld Street, past the Stellenbosch Museum, down to Meraki, where I turn right into Dorp Street. I love the long walk home; it allows me to pass through the heart of town every day. I get to see what new exhibitions are being advertised outside the art galleries and which bistros are having what specials. There are always such diverse flavours of people lounging outside the cafés sipping wine or coffee. Usually, I try to differentiate between the students, tourists and visiting parents, but today the rain has driven everyone inside, leaving only a lone smoker here and there to brave the cold. Dorp Street looks different in every kind of weather. Today, it almost feels like she is relishing the respite from the customary hubbub.
Generally, I would follow the road all the way to the Protea Hotel and cross the busy intersection before getting home. But I recently discovered a new path. Just after Smidswinkel Coffeeworks, an indistinct street turns off from the main road, leading to a bridge with stone stairs. Down below, you’ll find a pathway that ambles along the Eersterivier from one end of Stellenbosch to the next. I was amazed to discover that it actually meets up with the path I usually run. It felt like uncovering one of Stellenbosch’s secrets, but most locals probably know about it. I’ve encountered quite a few runners on the way.
For four years, I’ve been walking Dorp Street without knowing there’s an alternate reality just a stone’s throw away. With every new discovery, every fresh memory layered over a place, and every coffee at a café, I’m cultivating a sense of belonging. I’m not from here, but ‘here’ feels like home at this point. Yes, home will always also be the place where I grew up, but Stellenbosch is the place where I became. I know the mountains like the backs of my hands. I know what hue of pink they will be at what time of the evening. I have a grocery store that I frequent, and I know in what aisle they keep the coffee.
Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about belonging. Growing up, I always wondered whether my parents felt at home. For me, ‘home’ was where a person was born and where your parents and siblings are. So, I thought, surely my father could only ever feel at home when we visited my grandparents in the Free State and my mother only when we lived under the same roof as her parents. I didn’t think a person’s sense of belonging could evolve with you. I thought we were all just doomed to feel dislocated in some way, to long for a feeling of rootedness for the rest of our lives. But, when Stellenbosch started to feel like home, I realised that the notion isn’t fixed or singular.
So, what gives a place that sense of connection? How is it possible that it took years for my dorm room to feel as such but merely a few days for my apartment to hold the same significance? How come some places where I am a mere fleeting visitor, some cities where I have no ties, also carry that substantial aura of belonging. Maybe it is the people, the memories, maybe it has something to do with how the physical environment inspires you, or perhaps it is easy to find belonging in different places when you feel at home within yourself. That’s the thought that struck me as I followed the river path, sidestepping small rain puddles and low-hanging branches with rust-coloured leaves. Feeling at home in a place, feeling comfortable and content, starts with creating a home within yourself. Feeling like you belong entails getting to know all the hidden pathways, making it your own, knowing your way about town, having a usual grocery store and a favourite café. Getting to know yourself involves the same kind of surprising discoveries. It’s a stumbling upon, a finding of hidden paths and passions.
Just like you would set up your space to make it feel cosy and inviting – putting throw pillows on your bed and playing jazz while you cook – you can do the same with your inner self. Become familiar with your own nooks and crannies. Do some dusting and light a few candles. Spend time with yourself, and learn to appreciate yourself like you would a home. Yes, it’s probably not perfect, but with love and care, it can be everything you need. No place will ever feel like home if you keep resenting its imperfections. Acceptance is the start of belonging. It probably won’t be a linear journey. Some days my body feels unfamiliar, and my emotions are strangers to me. But I choose to sit in those feelings and try to become familiar with them too. Sometimes I am surrounded by people but overcome by loneliness, and no matter how much I get to know myself, I always miss my parents on Sundays and long for the thatched-roof house where I grew up.
Cultivating belonging within is not always easy or comfortable, but it can be a beautiful journey. Cities, apartments, and people come and go but you are the only constant throughout your entire life. So, pack out the boxes, decorate, hang some art on the walls and settle in. You are worth it.
(These musings made me think of a poem I wrote a while ago about the things we do to make a home within ourselves):
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