Home has been a tricky concept for me. One acquaintance described me as nomadic. I am not sure if she meant it as a compliment. I wasn’t offended. One ex-husband described me as unsentimental. He meant it as a criticism. I took it as a compliment.
The longest I have ever lived in one residence is 12 years and that was several years ago. I have since moved. I was shocked when I began to pack for this most recent move. How had I acquired so much? I felt heavy with the weight of things I had allowed to become part of my footprint. It felt dangerous to be so sedentary.
The first time I allowed myself to become attached to a home was in 1998 when we moved into our third home as a couple and our second home as homeowners. The boys were 3 and not quite 2 years old. The house was old, circa 1889 with some updates. The windows were extravagantly large. The glass was wavy from age, and many of the sashes needed repairing. There was a front porch, roomy enough for comfortable seating with a gorgeous white blooming catalpa bignonioides sharing its shade. The backyard was an open and wild space. Once, I saw a bobcat by the back fence from an upstairs window.
I didn’t quite know what to do with this new house. We only had a few pieces of furniture. I was busy with the kids who weren’t concerned about whether the house was decorated or even furnished beyond their little table for meals and crafts as well as a rug for Playmobil adventures.
At some point, I went from intimidated to inspired. I began to find unusual pieces. Reflecting an emerging creative vision and finding items functional for our family. I loved this process. I was so proud of the results. By the time I moved out of this house in 2001, I had created what felt like a home.
It broke my heart to move out. I had naively assumed that when I requested a divorce that the kids’ dad would move. He had been wanting to move out of town or at least out of this house for some time now. My request to end our marriage had caught him by surprise. It seemed that staying in the house was a way to share his pain with me.
Upon moving out and moving into a new place, I gained the knowledge that I could create a home anywhere. It was a gift to realize that home was not simply a physical location. My new nomadic phase began. Unwilling to admit to myself how much the divorce had hurt all of us, I played house. Creating beautiful spaces, hosting gatherings, building a life while keeping my emotions at arm’s length.
I love where I live now. I did not pick the location, the furnishings, any of it. Once again, I let go of my belongings, the possession that made up my home. I feel like I am home even though it is not of my creation. I don’t see myself moving and I am not sure if this is where I will live out the rest of my days. A new and emerging concept of home is held lightly and carefully like cradling a bird in my hand.
