About two weeks ago, I went on a very long walk in my new neighborhood. I walked up and down the streets to get some exercise. But instead, I found myself just being fascinated by the homes. You see...I have always loved to see where a person calls "home." I love looking around at the pictures on the walls and the furniture. It is purely for the fact that I like to see how people ease into their surroundings. When I visit a friend, I like to see where he or she sits when we talk on the phone, what their kitchen is like when they make a roast, or what the backyard is like when they have a BBQ on the 4th of July.I guess it is the writer in me. I like description. I like a setting. I like knowing where someone lives.
Over one summer, my college poetry group had this wild and crazy idea to meet every other week at a group member's house instead of at the school. I loved it. At times, it was more of an insight into the real person than reading their poetry.
Well, that day I went on the walk, I just soaked in the houses, yards, and streets my neighbors and ward members lived on. It was so comforting to me to see these people in their own element. I began to really wonder, what is a home? Dictionary.com defines it as "the place at which one's domestic affections are centered." When I was younger it was my room that demanded my domestic affections.
I had a small, cockatiel in the corner, a keyboard to play, an old, long bed littered in books and a large framed cork board on the wall of all of my favorite pictures, collage style. I painted the walls, two shades of green in college (probably to demonstrate my sadness for leaving New Zealand) and added a guitar to the mix of musical instruments in the corner.
When I moved out and lived with roommate's, I changed everything in my room to dark reds. Color seemed to follow me in phases. But, I still had all the pictures and even the Cockatiel.
Now, I am married and my taste is mingled with another. My home is his. A while ago, when my best friend came over after we were first married, she looked around the apartment and (knowing both of us well) said, "it looks like a perfect blend of you two here. I myself agree... though I miss the Cockatiel.
On a rather jarring note, the day before my walk, my husband and I were driving home after dinner, when we came upon an enormous amount of smoke down the street. Like any morbid, human being... we followed it. And, we came upon a three story home, downtown, that was engulfed in flames. This wasn't like the cartoons with a little flame in each window. This was a ball of flames with the frame of a house swallowed inside. We arrived before the fire engines and I was pretty spooked the rest of the night.Luckily, no one was hurt, but it makes you think... what would you grab if it was all going up in flames? What matters, what doesn't? What makes a home, a home?
When I moved out with some roommates a few years ago, a close friend gave me a little sewn picture saying, "Home Sweet Home." That hung in the little room I rented for a year. Now it hangs in our tiny little apartment. It reminds me that no matter where I live, it is my job to put down some roots and blossom where I am planted.
