The geometry of belonging

“Where are you from?”

In my work in international sales, I have traded this question with hundreds of people across the globe. I’ve met nomads who haven’t seen their birthplace in decades. Some plan to return the moment they retire; others have decided to be buried in the soil of a foreign land. Every time I ask, the definition of “home” shifts. Is it where you drew your first breath? Where you spent the most years? Or simply where your parents’ house stands?

The Pico Iyer definition

I recently found a beautiful answer in a TED talk by the travel writer Pico Iyer. He argues that “home” isn’t a place where you just happen to be born. Instead, it’s the place where you become yourself. To me, Pico’s “place where you become yourself” refers to a landscape or a community of people where you feel a profound sense of connection—a place to which you truly belong. It is a humble realization that you are merely a small part of something much larger than yourself. This is why I find it so exhausting when I hear young people arrogantly claim, “My home is the Earth.” While I have enough tolerance to dismiss such talk as a youthful indiscretion, I can’t help but feel they are missing the grounded humility that defines a true home.

The landscape of the last moment

Unlike Pico Iyer, my roots were simple. I was born and raised in a single place: Hokkaido, the northernmost wilderness of Japan. But after university, I spent 15 years moving across the mainland.

During those years away, a recurring dream haunted me. I would see a vast, silent, frozen landscape—a world of white and crystal. It was a scene so beautiful and serene that I decided it was the last thing I wanted to see before I died. At that distance, Hokkaido was my spiritual lighthouse. It was the place my soul went back to every night when I closed my eyes.

The harsh reality of the shovel

This article would be beautiful and poetic if it ended there. But reality, as they say, is a cold mistress.

Now that I have finally returned to my “soul’s destination,” the “serene white landscape” of my dreams has been replaced by the back-breaking reality of the morning snow shovel and a coldness so “crazy” it freezes your breath.

The reality hit me hardest during a recent business trip to Tokyo. I left the mild, paved streets of the capital and landed back at Asahikawa Airport, only to find my car completely buried under a mountain of snow in the parking lot. Because I was still dressed for Tokyo, I was wearing thin sneakers. Within seconds, I lost all sensation in my toes as I frantically tried to dig my car out. In that moment, I wanted to find my past self—the one who harbored sweet, romantic illusions about returning to this frozen world—and give him a good, hard slap.

Perhaps the truest definition of a home is a place you long for when you’re away, but complain about when you’re there. It seems the grass—or the snow—is always greener on the other side. But Hokkaido remains a masterpiece, and I look forward to welcoming you here. Just remember: bring boots, not sneakers.

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Home is the place that anchors us, whether we are dreaming of it or digging it out of the snow. Why not choose a piece of furniture that provides that same sense of grounded belonging, no matter how cold it gets outside?

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