Eric Peters is a Nashville treasure and the singer, songwriter, and recording artist behind some of our favorite albums. He also dresses up in funny clothes and calls himself The Book Mole. True Story.
Traveling west on Interstate 40 across the rain-drenched dales of middle Tennessee, my mind is distinctly set in a honing pattern upon home, that cradle necessary as Mesopotamia to ancient civilization. It is a late Sunday afternoon,
Those eloquent Welsh folks have a word for something we vagabond Americans can’t seem to name: hiraeth. It means something like homesickness for a home you cannot return to, or even a home that never existed at all; an intense longing for one’s motherland; a grief-tinged nostalgia for the lost places in the world where one’s heart once fit.
I know that many in our transient culture like to talk about home in terms of people—home can be anywhere as long as you’re with people whom you love and who love you—and I certainly don’t deny that family and community are inseparable from the concept. But it is precisely the placeness of home that I am interested in: the incarnate reality of it, the dirt and the roof and the bones of it.