Hiraeth (Welsh): A proto-Celtic word that describes a longing for one’s homeland, grief for a past that’s lost. A deep homesickness. It has no direct translations.
There are times when I wake in the darkness before dawn with that familiar feeling of displacement.
Everyone has this sensation from time to time—it’s a product, perhaps, of a life well traveled or shifting circadian rhythms.
Anyone roused from a deep sleep too quickly may wake with hackles raised in anticipation of some ancient predator.
But I wake in a vortex of vertigo, wondering not where I am but when I am, and no matter what princely place or quaint cottage I find myself in, my ancestral home is my touchstone—my true north.
It is the longing before I open my eyes.
But time grinds us down like grain on the quern.
We are alchemized by those who came before us, and so are these places and monuments they have touched.
What home do I have to hope for anymore?