Home acquires meaning through arrivals that never become special occasions.

Belonging is built out of unremarkable repetition. The night you were welcomed with a meal counts for something, but what actually makes a place yours is the four hundred times you came in wet, said nothing much, put your keys in the same spot and were not required to be a guest. Nobody records those. They are the substance anyway, and their absence is what makes a nice house feel like an address.

Count the ordinary arrivals you have somewhere. If a place matters to you, go there when there is no reason. Repetition without occasion is what does the work.