Photo by Devon Janse van Rensburg on Unsplash
What makes a house a home? Is it the décor and furniture? Is it the paint and lighting? Maybe it’s just the spirit of the land, attitudes of the occupants or some combination of everything.
Whatever the answer, I’m still seeking it. As I walked through the door of my house a few weeks ago, I was struck by the sheer emptiness of the space. The walls were blank. Each room felt barren; devoid of personality though I had lived there for nearly six months. It looked occupied, but not lived in. Why? What was keeping me from creating home?
As I sat with that question, several realizations rolled over me in quick succession.
I don’t plant roots. I look at a house as a place to sleep, occasionally relax and be physically safe, but I’m always preparing for the next move. Constant uncertainty and instability as a child taught me that I can’t afford roots. It’s too painful to grow attached to a place.
Before I hit double-digits, I’d lived in homeless shelters, run-down motels and even cars. It’s been decades since that was my reality, but my internal world is still wired for survival. At any moment, everything can be taken, so I must be ready to move, adapt and survive. When survival is all you can see, you have no vision for creature comforts. No time to wonder what might soothe your spirit or quench the weariness of your soul. You have no time.
Creating a home is about cultivating an external space that will minister to your internal world, and I’ve spent so much time neglecting my internal space that I have a steep learning curve ahead. But I am learning.
I’m learning that I love seeing live plants thrive. The process of nurturing life in another is a way I also care for myself. I love seeing Black art on my walls. It reminds me of the power, wisdom and beauty of the African diaspora. In the face of White indifference, it’s helpful to know what potential lies within me. I love soft, plush blankets and throw pillows because they help comfort and soothe my inner child when he feels wounded. They also bring a smile to my face when joy is needed.
Candles and incense call forth the artist within me while the midafternoon sunlight that spills through my windows lightens my heart even on the heaviest of days.
Cultivating home is part of my healing journey. It’s a daily process of caring for myself with intention and grace. A way to check in with myself about what is pleasing to my senses and invigorating to my soul. What makes a house a home? Right now, I guess the answer is me.
Found this by looking at your LinkedIn page after you led a really wonderful IYI session today. This particular text (I haven't read any others -- I'm not stalking you, I promise) is meaningful to me. My work has everything to do with trust and belonging, and a few weeks ago I was led through a process of thinking about Belonging in regards to a place: "What is a place you know, in reality/memory/imagination, in which, when you walk in, your shoulders drop, you feel at ease, comfortable/comforted, and belonging?" When I heard the prompt, I was startled because I usually think of belonging as relational, about other humans, but the author suggested that thinking of a place might be safer for some. I haven't been able to lose that prompt, and reading this, I wonder how such a prompt might sit with you, both now and in your youth? I will certainly continue contemplating, but if you're open to answering, I would value your insights.
Great piece. Paragraph 4 resonates. To sit back and ponder what you like to see in your space is a great way to begin. Here’s to making a home in 2022.