Good question Ann , if I understand home as a place , let´s say a house or a building where you still have family living there. The house where I grew up was burnt out to ashes so the place doesn´t exist anymore. My family moved from Chile to Argentina and brothers and mother live in different houses. I live in Ireland like you and rent an apartment which I don´t consider it as home ...so home is like a unicorn for me.

A home is a dwelling where you feel love. You feel wanted. You feel like you belong. You feel safe. There is an attachment to it. It is more than simply a building with walls. There is something special within those walls.

A home can be a house, but a house doesn’t need to be a home.

Home is a place that is familiar to you and that you share similarities between habitants. You realize where your home is, when you are in another place and surrounded by strangers. In that case, home can be a house, a city, a country, a planet or a universe.When I am abroad, I call my country as a home. When I am in another city, I call my hometown as a home. When I am another house, I call my house as a home. If I could be in another planet, I am sure that I would call earth as a home. Yes we can define home as a place which you feel comfort, safe and happy. But life doesnot involve just good feelings. Home sometimes become the place of most painful memories. But we still call that place as a home.

I can't resist quoting part of a famous poem by Edgar Guest. He has a strange status in the United States: he is not considered a great poet in a literary sense, but several of his poems are well-known and well-beloved.

The first line, slightly misquoted, has become a saying: "It takes a heap of living to make a house a home."

<em>It takes a heap o’ livin’ in a house t’ make it home, </em>

<em>A heap o’ sun an’ shadder, an’ ye sometimes have t’ roam </em>

<em>Afore ye really ’preciate the things ye lef’ behind, </em>

<em>An’ hunger fer ’em somehow, with ’em allus on yer mind. </em>

<em>It don’t make any differunce how rich ye get t’ be, </em>

<em>How much yer chairs an’ tables cost, how great yer luxury; </em>

<em>It ain’t home t’ ye, though it be the palace of a king, </em>

<em>Until somehow yer soul is sort o’ wrapped round everything. </em>

Translated into classroom English:

<em>It takes a heap of living in a house to make it home,</em>

<em>A heap of sun and shadow, and you sometimes have to roam</em>

<em>Before you really appreciate the things you left behind,</em>

<em>And hunger for them, somehow, with them always on your mind.</em>

<em>It doesn't make any difference how rich you get to be,</em>

<em>How much your chairs and tables cost, how great your luxury;</em>

<em>It isn't home to you, though it be the palace of a king,</em>

<em>Until somehow your soul is sort of wrapped 'round everything.</em>

Here's the whole poem:

<a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44313/home-56d2235c059bf" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Home by Edgar Albert Guest</a>

A lot of people in Ireland use the word "home" to refer to the place where they grew up. I live in Ireland but I am German. Whenever Irish people ask me if I am going "home" for Christmas, they mean Germany. It doesn't feel right to me to refer to Germany as home, because Ireland is where I live and where I share a house with my partner.

I am fascinated by the word "home" because it can have so many meanings to different people. For example, my physical home is Dublin but I feel that my spiritual home is in the west of Ireland. And Germany is where my roots are, but the word "home" no longer fits.