I realize the importance of a home. Home is where we invest our lives and our identity. Each morning we wake up and stretch our arms. We swing our legs over the side of the bed and put on our slippers or perhaps our housecoats. We take the dog outside, turn the tea kettle on and open the window once the kettle steam has coated it with a speckled layer of moisture. Music is turned on, maybe it’s the TV. We turn the stove on and crack an egg into a pan, listening to the sizzle of the egg as it meets heat. We pull chairs out from the table, and hear the legs streak across the wooden floors, then squeaking as we sit down. The sound of our forks against our plates as we cut into our breakfast while flipping through a newspaper, or let’s be real, our phones. We make the bed, turn the shower on and feel the water running down our face. These are the things, the mundane things, the real things, the things that turn our mornings into afternoons, and our afternoons into evenings, when we come home and close the front door, leaving the sound of passing cars behind. We hang our coats up and drop our bags against the door. Tiny paws tear up our leg and we kneel down to say hello. We walk into the living room and turn on the TV, the clicking of the remote from one channel to the next as we lay down pressing our faces into the couch. The phone rings but we don’t pick it up. The dog topples on top of us and our arm dangles onto the floor, brushing the rug beneath it. We fall asleep. These are the things, the mundane things, the real things, the things that bring us into deep sleeps where we dream of everything in colour. These are our homes, the buildings that show the behind the scenes of who we really are and how we really feel. The four walls for our bodies; our bodies the vessels for our souls. Home is our place of being.
