My father grew up in the same space he still lives. Built in 1920 by my grandmother’s father on 525 acres of rocky farmland, it was my grandparents until my dad married and started his family. They then built a cute bungalow less than one kilometre away and that’s the only place I ever knew them to live. We cut across three fields, all hay to get to Grandma’s back porch. But the farm was always home. It was the hub around which my childhood turned.
The farm was home to me for 18 years. It was the safety net I needed to get through my teen years and my early twenties. The farm was old before I was born. It needed some TLC when I was a teenager. Now, I suspect it might need total rehabilitation. But it was home, it was where I went when I needed time to heal wounds, to make sense of the world, to find some peace.
It took us two and a half years to find our current home. We’ve been here ten years now. It is secluded. There is plenty of space to walk around and clear your head. And I can’t tell you when, but at some point, it became my safe space. It is where I come back to at the end of the days where I feel raw and tired and just done.
My house is so far from perfect. We bought it as a fixer upper and made a small dent in the fixing up before we started having kids. It currently has no siding on it. Or flooring in the kitchen/living room (despite what the husband says, painted plywood is NOT flooring).
Right now there is very little space upstairs because we’ve moved everything from the basement so that we could insulate it. There is often a pile (or a trail) of dirty socks or jeans or both that lead from the front door to the bedrooms. There are toys everywhere. And shoes. And tools.
But it is home. It is comfortable. And believe it or not, I invite people into my home for tea or a visit without a second thought about the state of my house. Because those people that would care about the state of my house more than the enjoyment of my company are not my kind of people.
We have made it clear to our friends and family that there is always a space for them to land. We don’t care what you did, in fact, its better if you don’t tell us. But our door is open. Come in, take the time you need. Heal your wounds, make sense of the world, find some peace.
I’ll make the tea.