What is your home telling you?

Home is where my feet meet soft cozy rugs and sometimes the crumbs leftover from this morning or last week.

Home is where I am never always expected to be me, as is--

Fresh breezes, filled with birdsong and the smell of roses and mint waft through the gauzy long curtains

Sometimes its orderly, and everything has a place

Sometimes it's an artist’s den with all things strewn to the side to make room for the explosion of creativity.

Home is safe.

Home is a place where the whispers of connection, inspiration, and deep acceptance are the rule keepers.

The space where respite is found, the depth of knowing oneself begins--

Where curiosity and softness lead the way.

Where the hard things are managed and sometimes overcome.

Where everything with enough time and space will be ok.

The objects inside remind me to look for beauty and sometimes just the reminder that "hey look, beauty exists."

The mantel cluttered with leaves, shells, candles, poems, stones, and feathers --

these are reminders, clues.

Whether it is a daydream, goal, or a reality; home is a safe place.

An Interactive place, a space that requires my attention to thrive.

I live in my home, and my home lives in me.

Reciprocal and necessary.

What if home was seen as an extension of who I am outside of the dwelling?

What if the actions and sensations I feel are also part of the home -as if the home space itself were a character in the story.

The tea kettle screams as if to point out clear and appropriate boundaries.

The aloe plant in the sunny corner reminding me via the molecules of space we share that it is ok to be both spikey and very gooey.

The special china, embracing protection tucked in the dining room hutch and imagining the day she gets lifted out, polished, and is allowed to be seen, to have a seat at the table.

Even the meal I cooked last tonight was not an idea that originated in me after all.

It was really a request of the Kitchen itself -

She has been longing to have the drawers slid smoothly shut,

the floor pitter-pattered on,

pans clanked,

counters chopped on and an utter mess made on,

towels and hips sway and tapped in time to the soft jazz music.

The relationship that exists is invisible and undeniable.

The kitchen seems to gleam after enjoying the aromatic soup that we created together.

We sigh together, the comfort of a delicious, homemade meal.

And the satisfaction that succeeds the meal permeates the whole home and all those within.

The house eats in different ways.

Witnessing, accepting She becomes an accommodating chamber.

The baggage brought home from work, likens itself to the soggy leftovers beckoning me in the middle of the night.

The excitement of the first snow of the season, or the tears after learning of one passing.

These expressions, these sensations —

are transformed and changed within the space we live.

We eat and nourish ourselves, we rest

We live

We share the space.

Home is in me, and I am in home.