We’ve been all about the house lately – a new porch, replacing a door, redecorating, and hopefully a new bathroom soon. Chaotic, but worth it. We thought at the time that this house would be one move too many, but, after so many moves and so much upheaval, it’s home now – in as much as we have ever felt settled anywhere, we feel settled here.
We potter lots, like a bowerbird constantly rearranging things, both in the house and in the garden. We sit lots too, and just take in our surroundings. This house – this home – is a good place, it feels nice. We like it. For all the pottering, we don’t much like “stuff” – the things we own are either useful or have meaning attached, presents from important people for example. There’s a story attached to almost everything – from my perch on the doorstep I can see the plants grown from a cutting given to us by a neighbour two house moves ago, the hydrangea and the solar light both given as graduation presents, the windchimes from mum, the owl that ‘made me think of you’. We are – dare we say it? – happy and content here. It is home.
Home is a strange concept, because we live here and this is our home but we still want to go home – some mythical place we can’t identify, a yearning for somewhere or something. But it all somehow comes together to anchor us in this place, as close to putting down roots as we have ever been even if we aren’t fully home.