home

I have gotten a few requests for more travel stories along the lines of the Lou-ee-veille post...I guess travel nightmares are always something most people can relate to, and while I promise to work on that, tonight I wanted to talk about the flip side: home. Last night, one of the guys from work invited a group of us to his house, so we could christen his new bar. He just completed an incredible media/play/bar room and wanted us all to see it. We all oohed and ahhed and got a little jealous, and then started talkin' about our own houses, which of course, got me thinkin'.

I have lived in a car, in a barn without electricity or plumbing, in a hotel, in apartments, in tiny houses, big houses, and a 3500 square foot "dream house" with views of the ocean. The house I live in now is small, but cozy and lovely, and perfect for me and the Pea. When I came home tonight I was happy to be home, and looked around grateful for what I have, despite the fact that I don't have the formal rooms, stainless appliances, 9 foot ceilings or ocean views of the house I left to come here. I don't have a media room or a bar, but I have the Pea, and that is all that matters...she is what makes the house I live in now home.

I am thinking as I type, about the time I spent in New York, at the farm, and of why I was so sad and desperate to get out when I was 15...it had nothing to do with not being able to blow dry my hair or watch tv, it was because I was lonely. I used the house and it's lack of modern amenities as an excuse, the reality was: I felt alone in my own home...I wasn't connected to my mom, I wouldn't allow myself to connect with dad, and I knew I wasn't being a very good big sister to Smash or Youngest, so I just wanted to get away. When I got a job at a very fancy horse farm, with the very fancy house, taking care of a very spoiled child and even more spoiled horses, I thought living there would make me feel better...nope. When I left New York for North Carolina at 17, I was convinced all it would take to finally get happy was a home of my own. I moved into my first apartment on my 18th birthday...again, it didn't make me happy, and so the quest began to buy a house. I really thought owning a house would give me that "thing" that I was missing. Three houses later I had my "dream house" and THOUGHT I would finally be happy...big sigh, again, nope.

It took walking away from the dream house to finally feel at home. I realize now, my desperate search for the "perfect house" was more about the desperate search for peace and happiness. Now that I am happy, feel secure, and can love and be loved, I no longer care where I live or what the house looks like...what I care about now is having a place of my own, where the Pea and I feel safe and secure, and my friends and family feel comfortable dropping by...with a bottle of wine...which you are welcome to do anytime BTW...just sayin'.