Home-Maker

There are some things I’m really good at. I pride myself on my ability to blow bubbles with gum not labeled “bubblegum.” I’m well-practiced in asking for hugs, making space for myself, frosting sugar cookies, and making up little songs. I know the fine art of soaking in any little bit of sunshine on a winter day, and I’ve gotten really good at making a place feel like my home.

I’m not sparse when it comes to decorating spaces. I like to fill shelves with tchotchkes and stack books, hang pictures of friends and framed maps of places I will, one day, visit. I’m crafty and so my space is often filled with things that reflect my somewhat off-beat sense of self.

On the day I moved into my new space at school, I had pictures and shelves hung before going to bed that night. My res rep came to my room and commented on the “great job” I’d done decorating.

But decorating only goes so far. We can fill a place with any amount of knick knacks or framed prints, but we have to put ourselves into it if we’re going to make a place feel like home.

And I think I have to revise my previous statement, because I couldn’t make any place feel like home without other people.

When I go on trips, the hotel becomes “home” because that is where me and my friends or family come together at the end of the day. The hotel is the place where we unpack our suitcases and ourselves after our big adventures. The hotel is our little place together in the world and, even if just for a few days, it is home.

When I moved to school, first I decorated. It was nice and organized but it wasn’t yet home. Now, my school is my home. It is a place where I feel safe, where I feel loved, where I feel embraced for who I am no matter what that entails. This is the place where I come back to after a particularly long day at work, the place where I cry when my heart is broken, the place where I run to when I have good news. Why? What makes this place my home?

The people.

The buildings and the location and the decorations are just the physical markings. These people are the people I trust with my secrets, with my sadness, with my joys, with my challenges. These are the people who I open myself to, to share their struggles and their happiness and even their thunderous, stormy days.

And if it’s the people that make this place a home, then I’ve got homes all over the country. Forget about millionaires and their summer homes. I’ve got about seven homes chock full of heart in Connecticut, a home overflowing with love Florida; I’ve got a home in Vermont, two in Maine, one in New York, one in Louisiana. I’ve got homes in Texas and California, Washington State and Washington, D.C.

The long and short of it is this: I’ve got so many homes because there are so many places where I know that someone loves me, where someone I am deeply connected to has decided to place themselves in the world. I’ve got homes where I’ve got memories, where smiles were shared or tears were shed, and, sometimes, both at once.

No reflection on home would be complete without the old adage, “Home is where the heart is.” Home is where the heart is, and we are blessed to have hearts so big that our home can be many places all at once.

As I ready my home here in Massachusetts for my trip back to my home in Connecticut, I remember a quote from Maya Angelou, “I long, as does every human being, to be at home wherever I find myself.” And that is my hope, friends, that you and I both will know we are at home, wherever we may find ourselves.

Peace & Love.