Take me home

I have used the word home to describe houses in rural middle Tennessee, a gym in traffic-riddled Northern Virginia, a shared work space I lovingly refer to as The Brain Trust Triad in the Northern Neck, and a silver 2010 Nissan Altima.

A home can be a place.
     Four walls, four doors, two bedrooms, one person, half the rent.
A person.
     A scientist, a teacher, an addict, a guitarist, a friend.
A feeling.
     Joy, silence, rage, loneliness, love.     
A moment.
     The time you shared chicken biscuits in the parking lot of Hardee's, the moment you said "Don't leave", the second you told her she was the only person who understood your weary mind, the hour you spend with your therapist, the morning you decided you were more than this feeling.
A ritual.
     A practice you rehearse, repeat, and renew.

When I say and feel home now, it's my living room.

It's this couch.


It's this Rorschach test of a rug littered with Ziggy Stardust's toys.


These furiously happy turquoise & pink pillows.


This fireplace and this mantle where our pictures and stockings live.

This bagel bed where Zig naps.


This corner table where Kobe's ashes rest.


This window above the doors to the deck.

This shelf with my Wizard of Oz bookends, record player, and a smattering of candles.


I feel home here because I made it home. Every thing and person and puppy in it was lovingly chosen. I took a room I didn't design in a house I didn't build and I turned it into a place I can curl my back into. I made it mine because a part of me knows that I deserve to feel comforted. I deserve to express myself in how I dress my body and how I decorate a room.

Self-love is many things and practices, friend. Where are you home? Where do you belong?