For much of the past eight weeks, I’ve been traveling. First, I drove out to San Diego to see the Aged P’s, then I dropped in on a brother near Santa Fe, and paid a call on Beloved Offspring in Colorado.
Got home, did a load of wash, lassoed a cyclone of paperwork at the office, then took off for what I thought would be a jaunt in Italy. Within a week, I was flying back to Georgia with my sister (family stuff flared up), and I just returned from there yesterday.
I have not finished unpacking–I’m too busy blissing over the pleasures of being home. My house doesn’t get a lot of attention from me. I often say it’s more of a camp site than a home, but I’m wrong. Home is my favorite place to be, for more reasons than I realized.
My computer screen sits at exactly the proper height for me, and my chair is a fancy ergonomic extravagance given to me by a friend on my birthday. LORDY, have I missed my computer set up!
My house is quiet. If a car goes by, the dogs and cats and I all look up. If there’s no traffic (which is for hours at a time), we can hear the stream that cuts through the property.
Once I get it aired out, my house smells good (to me, provided nobody’s visited the litter boxes lately). I can smell the new mown hay from across the lane and the enormous German irises in the vase by the door.
My books are here. My keepers, my references, the books I’m reading that are too large to tote around (The Autobiography of Mark Twain, Volume I, weighs more than four pounds).
My favorite things to eat are here, and nobody’s fussing about When Will We Eat, or What Will We Eat, or Where Will We Eat. I eat when I’m hungry, I don’t eat when I’m not, and I like to eat mostly raw food (except for good cheese and Ghiradelli dark chocolate squares) that’s light on wheat and sugar. This is not what’s offered at most restaurants, and holy Ned, does it make me grouchy to eat stuff I’m not jonesing for.
Home is the thick chestnut logs that form the wall I stare at when the words are fighting me, but it’s also the control I have over this space, and over myself when I’m in it. I love my home, and I’m so very grateful to have a home.
What have you done with the place where you live to make it YOUR home? Is there a part of home you take with you everywhere (I bring my favorite tea, for example). To two commenters, I’ll send signed copies of “The Captive.”