“I call home any place where there’s a nail to hang my raincoat and knife.”

It’s an old naval saying that has always impressed me, and while it’s a bit exaggerated, it certainly speaks to a nomadic and unstable lifestyle in which the individual reflects on what is strictly necessary around which they can build a decent existence.

Almost everyone I know seems aligned with the idea of ​​having something to call “home.” A reasonably comfortable, everyday, and definitely stable environment to which they can return whenever they want, and where they don’t have to justify their private activities. The succession of peaceful days will reinforce the feeling of stability and eventually create an illusion of security that seems practically necessary for a person to build their life.

The subjective criteria by which a person’s home is defined can vary considerably. I think I've mentioned some that are reasonably common (comfort, stability, and privacy), but there are others I've simply taken for granted, and in any case, the way these elements are needed will appear implicitly in each person's daily life. This is one of the reasons why houses are so different: one person might want a soundproof room for recording, another might want large closets, and yet another a gym.

But these vital elements aren't only subject to rationally necessary needs; it's also a clear reflection of everything society imposes on us. In first world, we are extremely consumerist, and almost all households tend to accumulate a large number of objects whose medium- and long-term usefulness is questionable, limited, or even nonexistent. This is something I find depressing, because the manufacture of these objects has consumed resources, and their acquisition by the end user has forced them to invest their lifetime. I find it very miserable to exchange life's time for unnecessary objects.

That's why the ideal mentioned in the naval saying that begins this reflection fascinates me: to build a sufficient life experience from just three elements: a nail to hang a knife on and a raincoat.

Recently, I joined the ranks of those without a home of their own. Perhaps I've never had one because I've always lived in other people's homes, but in any case, I found myself with the legal and practical obligation to vacate all my belongings, and at least select a few to take with me to the place where I'm currently staying until I have one available that I will try to call "home." Under these circumstances, I was forced to be conservative in what I could take with me, because my surroundings were going to be comparatively small, so I chose what I considered more or less essential, always keeping in mind the social context in which I live. The nail, the raincoat, and the knife.

The nail supports everything else. Depressingly, the suitcases and backpacks are piled haphazardly against the side of the bed where I now sleep. In my case, I grabbed whatever I could find in the attic and carried it all on my shoulders the very day I signed the sale agreement. It's a feeling that disoriented me a bit.

The raincoat represents what I wear on my body: underwear, tights, dresses, and shoes, including dress boots and running shoes. But in my case, it also applies to the bare minimum of makeup and a couple of wigs that allow me to maintain the illusion of my gender identity.

The knife refers to what is necessary to carry out essential life activities. Even if I were only going to live in this place for a limited time, I knew I would need a cell phone, a laptop, a comb, a toothbrush, and of course, a knife. In this case, a Spyderco, whose very existence by my side deserves its own article.

And more or less, this is what my life has been reduced to now. It's tricku, because western rich societies provide us with all sorts of suitable solutions as long as we have the money to pay for them, so typically one can count on an internet connection and buy food or nail clippers without facing any difficulty. There are many infrastructures derived from Western society that make my life easier.

In fact, to complain in my situation would seem regrettable on my part: a bomb didn't destroy my house, I don't have an incurable disease. Throughout the world, there are countless people who are deprived of their homes in terrible circumstances, and who certainly don't have my current resources.

But within the particular subjectivity of my personal circumstances, I can't instantly choose how I feel. I can't unilaterally decide that I'm comfortable and that the rest of my individuality has to adapt to this decision by force of my judgment. And without diminishing the kindness of the people who are helping me in this situation, I had to admit that I wasn't.

There are many things I can attribute this feeling to. For example, not having my usual computer equipment, including a good desk and chair for writing and programming. Or perhaps not having a large open space to go running in. Or perhaps simply not having my swords, since the training ones have remained in the armory, and the sharpened ones at a friend's house.

But this changed a bit last Friday. As I mentioned in this post, a sword I bought in January arrived. A fortuitous but almost providential delay meant that I once again slept with a sword within easy reach. And suddenly, the place became much more comfortable and stable. Something clicked in my mind, and I simply felt better.

I don't think it's a matter of security at all. I know how to defend myself with a sword, but I can also do it without one; it's more about what defines me as a person. I've spent over two thousand hours in the last four years with a sword in my hands, and this has helped me through my worst moments. Simply wielding one, or knowing that I can wield one whenever I want, brings me a sense of calm.

It's not a necessity that alone is enough to give me a sense of "home." I wouldn't be comfortable without a computer to write texts like this, or without being able to go for a run, or without my lipstick, but I think it's part of those small pillars that, considered in isolation, might seem unnecessary, but which support a portion of the weight, and without which the entire structure risks collapsing.

I hope to emerge from this experience as a simpler person, with fewer needs and certainly fewer useless objects that have no other purpose than to make cleaning the house more difficult.