Our rich vocabulary has a whole collection of words for naming the place we live, and each has its own resonance.
A "dwelling," for example, seems to be more accidental, less intentioned, something that is more hammer-and-nail or circumstance than choice, somehow held at arms' length.
A "residence" smacks of officialdom, of numbered categorization, something the government needs in order to keep track of its citizenry.
The word "abode" is just too stuffy.
"The farm" confers a sense of old-fashionedness, quaintness, and returning to "the farm" implies a return to the old-timey values that fed our spiritual --as well as our physical selves.
The word "home" is a gentle word that conveys peacefulness, safety, security, even rest. Then there are the words that describe the building such as "house" and "apartment." These are more "construction"terms than "heart" terms.
The word "homestead" --for me--carries an embedded snippet of adventure. It's not as restful as "home," but more on the order of setting out, seeking, discovering, and after all is said and done, having wrought from the earth a hard-earned living space.
Put the word "down" in front of home, and the combination implies a connectedness and a longing to return.
My favorite among all the choices is the word "homeplace." I'd never heard the term until I came East in the early 1970's. In this word resides the love of generations, of family, passing things on. I can smell the bower of roses over the doorway, the cookies in the oven, see the blooms from flowers planted generations ago. The welcome mat is out, the hearth is still there regardless of how long I've been gone. This word--homeplace-- beckons with arms wide. It has an unconditional lock on the heart, never lets go. Homeplace is where the heart is.