My body is my home. It was given to me by my mother, carefully grown from within her. A joint project between her and my father.
At some point she handed over the keys, giving me full ownership. Or maybe I took them, feeling that I was now ready to take full responsibility for the care, maintenance and upkeep.
I learned a lot of things in relation to how to look after my home. Many things were helpful, essential even. Many, as it turns out, were not so helpful or even proved harmful over time. The long-term deterioration or rot that some practices, beliefs or habits created has become evident over time.
I tried a number of times to renovate or give my home a make-over; following the latest trends, comparing my home to others and enviously wanting my home to be more like, or better than, theirs. Not realising that the bones and foundations of my home were never going to allow or be suitable for that type of renovation.
So many people have had an opinion on my home. Some positive, supportive and accepting; others critical, judgemental, unkind, unnecessary or ignorant. These people could be distant strangers, while others are closely known.
My home has stood strong through many tough storms, sunny seasons, harrowing winds and potentially destructive forces. My home has been worn down, but re-strengthened. She has been shaken and unsettled, but stood firm and held her place.
My home has needed a fence around her at times, to protect and give her space to sit, rest and welcome the world and visitors again. And some times, the fences have been removed to allow her to sit freely and openly in the world.
My home has welcomed many people to her. Some have stayed close, rarely leaving. While others visited frequently, regularly, rarely, or never again. But their fingerprints or marks of their presence remained in some way.
Hidden spaces, dusty corners, or maybe secret rooms....
I love my home. I love her creaks. I love her dents, scratches, stiff doors, and dirty windows. I love her quirky design features and timeless architecture. There are still a few rooms that I need to re-enter or explore. Hidden spaces, dusty corners, or maybe even new secret rooms that have gone undiscovered in the constancy of maintaining the ‘main’ living rooms.
I cannot and do not want to rebuild or redesign my home. I do not want to cover over the marks, dents and scratches. They are a part of me; they are what makes this my home.
Let me see the marks, dents and scratches and acknowledge their importance. Let me wander lovingly through my home, embracing all of her form, colour, doorways, rooms, dust, grime and details. Let me listen to her sounds and her stories. Let me be with her, not just reside in her. Let me give thanks, care and gentle, loving kindness to her.
For she is where I do belong.
