A Sense of Home
As I listen to “A Place in the World” by Frances Mayes (Under the Tuscan Sun – another favorite book of mine), I contemplate my own sense of home.
“You have great vibes,” sometimes friends would say. Or, “Your house feels very ‘lived-in’,” and yet another would say, “You have a peaceful home.” It pleases me. Places own us as much as we own them. I wonder what they mean, exactly, when they say it, and yet I know what they mean, as I feel that way in other people’s homes.
Still …
Every place I lived, and most of them were rented places, with the exception of the house where my family now resides, felt quite temporary. But despite its transient status, I always carved out a home that bore a stamp of permanence somewhere deep inside me.
“Naturally,” you might say, “you were renting, of course, it feels temporary.”
Perhaps.
But the thing is, though I own my current abode (or I will … in about 24 years), it still feels as though I’m passing through. You know, it feels like I haven’t met “my house.”
Perhaps.
But I nest, I roost, a painting, a picture, a bouquet of flowers my husband brought, couch pillows slightly covered in dog hair, mismatched furniture. I clutch a cup of hot piping tea, and that moment … that very moment, I’m at home.
Our Chicago apartment with a wonderful rooftop patio overlooking Lincoln Park. That view. Home.
Our tiny abode, which served as officers’ quarters in the 1940s, and a corner window with succulents in clay pots that my husband and I painted. Home.
A dilapidated duplex in a questionable neighborhood where we grew to a family of five. Home.
A mustard-yellow, tufted wingchair from Goodwill … a button missing, a few threadbare patches—my favorite place to sit. A round wicker tray my husband’s great-aunt brought from Brazil. A collection of linen-bound Bernard Shaw books, I rescued from the library during inventory cleanup days. A “Momma Bear” mug, my husband gave me because he chooses to feed my affinity for all things tea and coffee. Home.
Home. It always moves and yet … it never moves.
Where is your home? Tell me … I want to know.
