There is a piece of poetry which sings to the heart and at times resonates in my head like an old unused bell that comes to life when nudged by an occasional blow of wind. It is a broken verse lodged inexorably between the folds of my temporal lobe probably sometime during 4th grade in one of those long ago summers in a Reading class that invariably leaves half of the class yawning as we sit in a stiflingly hot classroom. I do not remember the title of the poem, let alone who wrote it, but the portion that remains with me talks about love, and home, and how it is created. It is short and unsophisticated but the simplicity of its unembellished lines does not take away from the insightful beauty and wisdom of its meaning.
Driving to work this morning in a semi-reflective mood, which is a luxury I am sometimes able to afford when I leave with more lead time, I am reminded of that piece of poetry. Fragmented due to the absence of the first couple of stanzas I am unable to summon to the fore, its poetic truth hangs as a grim reminder of the disparity in human circumstances that is sadly apparent as I drive past some stately homes and some more modest ones along the way. Comparing a capacious, even capricious, ostentatiously grand mansion set amid an expansive, well-tended manicured lawn with the simple, common, unadorned facade of a tiny house in a bucolic setting, I wondered what unseen substance holds together the sinews of their protective walls. Do nails, wood, and mortar, those common elements of assembly, unify or set them apart or is there something more lasting, more rare, more special though less tangible, that defines one dwelling and separates it from another? As those thoughts assail my consciousness, there is again that gnawing need to recall, to remember those so aptly composed lines from a half-forgotten poem. But as in times past, I am frustrated by my vain attempt to recollect the poem in its entirety as my fretful mind plays some tricks of self-doubt on whether I ever know the whole text at all, or just those few lines I keep stored in my head through the years and come unbidden every so often. This time, I have an overwhelmingly strong urge, bordering on morose anxiety, to find the rest of the poem. So as soon as I get to my office, I log on my computer and google part of the verse that I retrieve from memory. To my absolute delight, with that investment of a few seconds tapping my fingers on such marvel of technology, the perplexity of the missing lines is resolved as Henry Van Dyke's lyrical verse come alive on the screen. Now, as if feasting on the spoil of the hunt, I invite you to join me in the sheer joy of rediscovery:
A HOME SONG
I read within a poet's book
A word that starred the page:
"Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage!"
Yes, that is true; and something more
You'll find, where'er you roam,
That marble floors and gilded walls
Can never make a home.
But every house where Love abides,
And Friendship is a guest,
Is surely home, and home-sweet-home:
For there the heart can rest. - Henry Van Dyke -
House, home. Is their difference just a matter of semantics, interchangeable words standardized as lexicon's frame of reference? And what of connotations, those various shades of allusion inviting one to a deeper, more profound reflection of what's hidden from the surface, the subtlety, the nuance that is sometimes missed when searching for meanings borne of earnest thought and introspection? In an age when the rules of language are slowly dissipating to give way to a melange of casual speech, common slangs and colloquialisms, the distinction between those two words has been lost in the morass of informal, easy, and carefree verbalization.
"Home For Sale", reads one sign on the front yard of a house along a major thoroughfare. My incredulity was palpable when I first saw such ad , then realized it had been the norm as I saw it in increasing frequency. My initial feeling to what I thought was a blatant disregard for meaning was incredulity and I thought, "How could someone sell a home?" Call me old-fashioned, conventional, or even staid, but I still subscribe to the truism I learned from the old school that defines a home as a place where one finds safety, security and love and where "the heart can rest", whereas a house is mainly a structure, a building, a physical dwelling. That is not to say, however, that a house can never be a home. There is a sure way by which such transformation can be accomplished, an unfailing, unambiguous, and tested formula from the scriptures: "Organize yourselves; prepare every needful thing, and establish a house, even a house of prayer, a house of fasting, a house of faith, a house of learning, a house of glory, a house of order, a house of God" (D&C 109:8). Although the word "home" is not specifically mentioned in this verse, there is an undertone of order, love, faith, and security that radiate in this divine mandate and fuse with the dictionary's definition of home as a place where a person or animal can find refuge and safety or live in security. The old adage, "Home is where the heart is", reflects more than a place of abode but projects an allusion to repose and tranquility, a place where one finds affection, emotional warmth and caring.
There is an disconcerting feeling that tugs in the visceral fringes of the erudite self when established rules are broken and that is true in semantics as in any given class of learning. But as language evolves, some of those established norms of speech ebb like a fading undertow as new forms of verbiage are coined and increase in usage like a wave that crests on its way to the shore of an advancing world.
As we aim for verbal clarity and search for the underlying wealth of word meanings, let us hope we go beyond what semantics dictates. Call it a house or a home, a mansion or a hut, a castle or a shed. Is there a price one has to pay for being less incisive? In our assiduous desire for precision and correctness, do we miss the greater goal? The spirit of the home which breeds love, faith, peace, and security counts far more than proper terminology. It is the unifying force that goes beyond the echoes of the spoken word and, when present, invariably brings the elusive glue of commonality to any class of human dwelling which brick and mortar cannot provide. Such goal, when captured, will more than justify the drossy faux pas in semantics.
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