Home & Heartstrings
"Home is the place your grow up wanting to leave; and grow old longing to return to."
Lately, I’ve found myself swept up in that pull of nostalgia. Do you ever catch yourself reminiscing about your childhood home?
Over the past decade or so, as the seasons changed in my bones, I’ve felt my heart gently tugging me back to Cape Agulhas - the southernmost tip of Africa, where the ocean sings lullabies and the lighthouse keeps eternal watch. That tranquil, sun-kissed village by the sea shaped my soul with its pebble streets, salt-laced winds, and rhythms of moon and tide.
The house I was born in, in Pretoria, was designed by Gerhard Moerdijk - the same man who designed the Voortrekker Monument, is not there anymore. In its place a hospital, but it was nothing short of extraordinary - its architecture imprinted in my memory forever. When my sister was still alive, she helped me fill in the blanks. She lived there for much longer, and her memory was the keeper of many forgotten corners. I was only nine when we left, and certain things were just beyond my grasp of importance. What I clearly remember, is the Friday night ‘kerrie sosaties’ with its green sauce spread like velvet over the ‘slap tjips’ - unforgettable.
The house I grew up in still stands - but it’s been altered here and there. Time and strangers have shifted its face, but in my heart, it remains untouched: I remember the Sunday lunches, just my parents, myself and my brother - the love and laughter around that table will be part of me forever.
Maybe it was the photo I used on WhatsApp recently - the one from 1984. Oupa and Ouma, us four siblings (three already married), and eight grandchildren huddled around them. My boetie toe nog net gekys.
Fast forward to 2025, and of those nine adults, only two remain: myself, and my older sister’s husband. He remarried. We’ve lost contact. I believe 80 is looking at him from a not-too-distant shore - if it hasn’t already arrived.
I try to remind myself that home is where the heart finds itself, only until my heart reminds me that it is scattered across the globe. Pieces of it echo in different voices, across time zones, across lifetimes.
Yet for as long as I can remember, I’ve loved creating ‘home’ - wherever I found myself. I always brought colour into my spaces (even if the walls stayed stubbornly white). I wanted warmth, welcome, a vibe you could sink into. I wanted to make every room a sacred space.
Now, in this little home of mine, I’ve done just that. My chakra box hums softly in the corner. The walls hold stories. And the air? The air remembers.
When my daughter-in-law tells me how much she loves just sitting here, soaking in the frequency - feeling restored before she leaves - I know I’ve done something right.
When Violet comes over and immediately asks, “Can I go to your room, Ouma?” then returns saying, “I love your bedroom!”
Or Austin, yesterday, asking, “Can we go to your house, Ouma?” because he knew the remotes lived freely there, LOL.
It makes me smile. Life always throws in a laugh or two, doesn’t it? Just enough to soften the scars and dry the tears.
"Home is where love resides, memories are created, friends always belong, and laughter never ends."
It should be. And maybe - just maybe - mine will be that again.
Until then, I’ll keep building sacred spaces and scattering love wherever my heart beats.