What does home mean to you? How does it look, feel, smell, and sound? Is there a required comfort level in your current abode, and if so, how do you reach and sustain it?
I've come to expect home to be safe, comfortable, grounding, and nurturing, even, but that wasn't always the case. I grew up anticipating and accepting discomfort at home as a given, whether that meant sharing a small apartment with too many, living with openly hostile relatives who made it obvious my presence was a burden, or just a perpetual sense of unease stemming from worries of what catastrophe would befall our household next.
Sometimes it was a delinquent bill that sent my mom into a silent, stress-filled state of detachment that she tried but failed to hide. The storm of deep-seated mental chaos and unprocessed emotions churning inside my dad always threatened to blow through our front door at any moment, along with someone he'd casually invited to live with us without forewarning. And the silence. In between the expected energetic upheavals, dense quietness lingered in the air, holding all the secrets and shame and everything else we were too scared, ill-equipped, embarrassed, and uncomfortable to address out loud.
So, the focus today—the challenge—is to establish an unwavering baseline of comfort in the place I call home. Through trial, error, and time, I am slowly learning what that means and how to integrate it. I am learning that regardless of my surroundings and the energy of the space I occupy, I alone am responsible for making myself comfortable. Only I can identify and enforce the rules and regulations. The onus of solidifying my required form(s) of comfort is on me, as is the act of granting myself the permission to take up as much space as I need until I'm at ease.
Can I stretch my body, mind, and soul into a cathartic release when I cross the threshold? Is there ample space and freeness for the hems of my red silk robe to flow behind me as I stroll into the kitchen to steep my daily tea? Is my home an understanding, kind, supportive lap I can collapse and cry into when I'm hurting? Is it peaceful and tidy? Is it a place where my voice freely carries from room to room as I talk to the characters on my favorite TV series or plead for my ancestors to show me mercy and continued clarity? Am I free to cackle loudly there? To sip a glass of wine? To receive the benefit of the doubt? To consume an edible and let my mind tiptoe through other realms and dimensions? To accidentally burn a few slices of toast (oops) and set off the fire alarm? To clean and hum on a Saturday morning and light a candle afterwards? To decorate? To sleep in? To entertain friends? To sing at the top of my lungs? Am I free to just be?
For the past year, I've planted roots in an enchanting new city. But for reasons both in and out of my control, I'm not quite at home yet. There's a hole in my heart waiting to have all of the aforementioned standards met before I can declare myself fully settled. The worry, disarray, bursting-at-the-seams silence, and restrictions that used to define home for me are no longer acceptable. I'm in urgent need of a new formula, authored by me and me alone. From what I've gathered, it entails moving through the experimental phase of adding, adjusting and removing elements, while discovering new ones that I can ultimately alchemize into what I truly need in order to be at home.
I 1000% felt this Sis!
This is such a great read! I love how I was able to visualize your words and really capture your emotions.