It’s an innate urge to own land: to sift your hands through a spot of soil and call it yours, to build a fence around it and paint your name on the mailbox.
It was only a few months ago when we decided we wanted to buy our first house. And when we decided, we did it with gusto I tell you. We delved into the school of real estate and online housing searches, praying that the perfect fit would appear as easy as a click.
Perfect changed a million times.
And what we individually wanted morphed into something we both wanted for each other.
So, we fell in love with houses, oh so many houses.
It all starts the same; I run my hand along a banister and peek into a room. I picture Christmas mornings and Sunday dinners and backyard parties. I picture a museum of books and photographs, I envision tea parties and bubble baths and soft, summer, nights on the deck. I dream of gardens and office nooks, and quaint little closet spaces.
But mostly, I imagine a feeling I’ve not quite felt before. I want to walk through my door and feel safe, and proud, and comforted all at once. I want there to be a peace inside those walls of ours. I want to feel it in the floorboards and smell it in the kitchen and have it hover where we sleep.
And while my brain has been building floor plans, my spirit reminds me the danger in it. Because, as it has been said in endless expression, home has nothing to do with a house.
I found home five years ago when I couldn’t help but tell my boyfriend all my secrets.
I found home two-ish years ago when my spirit sensed another beating heart inside my body.
I found home a decade ago when, for the first time, I put pen to paper and allowed my heart to beat across the page.