There was once a wanderer who traveled from village to village, kingdom to kingdom, asking every soul he met the same question: “What kind of home do you dream of?”
The merchant in the bazaar of Isfahan said, “A home with walls thick enough that no storm can enter.” The fisherman on the banks of the Mekong said, “A home where the river’s song reaches my pillow.” The scholar in Chang’an said, “A home where my books will outlast me.” The mother in a small Javanese village said simply, “A home where everyone comes back.”
The wanderer wrote all their answers down. And after many years, he sat beneath a banyan tree and wept — because he realized every answer was the same answer, wearing different clothes.
Lao Tzu once observed that a room’s usefulness comes not from its walls, but from the emptiness within them. And so it is with home. The home everyone dreams of is not truly a structure. It is a space — an inner clearing where something restless finally agrees to be still.
Rumi knew this. He wrote that there is a field beyond the ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, and invited us to meet him there. That field, my dear readers — is it not a kind of home? A place where we no longer need to perform, defend, or explain ourselves. Where the exhausting theater of the world pauses, and we are permitted, at last, to simply be.
The Buddha called it something else. He spoke of sukhā, a deep well-being that does not depend on conditions. Not the happiness of getting what we want, but the peace of no longer needing the world to be other than it is. A monk carrying that peace within himself is at home in the forest, in the city, in a cave, in a crowd. His home travels with him because it was never outside him.
The Confucian tradition would gently disagree — or rather, gently add. For Confucius, home is not solitary. It is relational. Home is where lǐ (禮), the sacred rituals of care, are practiced: the way a son pours tea for his father, the way a mother calls everyone to the table, the way siblings argue and forgive in the same afternoon. Home is not a place where conflict is absent. It is a place where repair is always possible.
And here the traditions meet like rivers flowing into one sea.
The Greek philosopher Epicurus built a garden — not a palace — and filled it with friends. He said that of all the things wisdom provides for living a blessed life, the greatest by far is friendship. His home was not the garden itself, but the quality of presence shared within it. The walls were made of trust. The roof was made of laughter and honest conversation.
The Sufi masters would nod. Ibn Arabi taught that the heart itself is the true home — al-qalb — and that it must be vast enough to contain every form. A heart that can hold grief and joy simultaneously, that can welcome the stranger and the beloved alike, that does not shrink when life is difficult — that is the mansion everyone secretly seeks.
In the Bhagavad Gita, Krishna tells Arjuna something quietly devastating: that the wise person is at home everywhere because they have surrendered the illusion that safety comes from circumstance. This is not cold detachment. It is the deepest kind of intimacy with life — the willingness to meet each moment as a guest room in an infinite house.
And yet. And yet.
There is something beautifully, stubbornly human about wanting a particular home. A particular chair by a particular window. The smell of clove and pandan in a particular kitchen. The sound of rain on a particular tin roof in Central Java. The way a particular cat curls against your knee at a particular hour of the evening.
Perhaps this is the deepest wisdom of all — one the philosophers sometimes forget in their love of the universal. That the home everyone dreams of is both infinite and specific. It is the peace that passes understanding, yes. But it is also the worn wooden table where your family has eaten ten thousand meals. It is both the field beyond wrongdoing and the kitchen where someone is making you tea without being asked.
Kiai and kyai of the Javanese pesantren tradition understood this. They did not flee the world to find God. They built homes — pesantren — where the sacred and the ordinary lived side by side, where prayer and rice planting shared the same hours, where the divine was found not above the roof but within it.
So what kind of home does everyone dream of?
It is this: a place where you are known and still welcome. Where your weariness is not a burden but a reason for someone to make the evening softer. Where your silence is not misunderstood as absence. Where the door is open not because there is no danger in the world, but because love has decided it is stronger than fear.
It is the home Rumi describes when he writes: “Close your eyes. Fall in love. Stay there.”
It is not a house. It is a belonging.
And the most beautiful secret — the one the wanderer discovered beneath the banyan tree — is that this home is not only something we find. It is something we become. Every act of genuine welcome, every moment of deep listening, every cup of tea offered without agenda — we are building it, room by room, in the lives of others.
The home that everyone dreams of, dear readers, is the one we carry in how we love.
The wanderer closed his journal. He looked up at the banyan tree and smiled. He had been searching for home his entire life. He had not noticed that everywhere he stopped to ask his question — and truly listened to the answer — he had already arrived.
Bhyllabus l'énigme 
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