A Home at the End of the World

“Home is the nicest word there is.” ― Laura Ingalls Wilder

I never thought I'd start a blog or even a single post with a quote by Laura Ingalls Wilder. I wasn't a huge follower of Little House on the Prairie, and grew up in cultures far removed from the American West. 

And yet...

Home. It's where we start and where we return. Four walls; one roof; a window. Plants for a spot of green; a lamp to cheer the gloom; champagne flutes to toast. Why do these things matter? 

Growing up, I moved across five countries and three continents, therefore giving up as many homes as I got. Along the way, I lived in a two-floor apartment in Bombay, a cottage-y duplex in London, a sprawling house in the Philippines, and a traditional colonial in Connecticut. Each had its own character, smell, and feel. Each began as alien and exciting, and each took on the imprint of my family and our habits. 

I could ramble on about how home is the encapsulation of our inner selves; the inflection point between who we are and who we see ourselves to be. Why, for instance, do I have artfully arranged bud vases in one room, but a series of lint brushes in the other?! 

Suffice it to say, what I have realized over the years is that home is not just a place to rest and eat. A house is its own field of vision; a gallery in which I'm the curator and consumer all at once. When I rest my eyes in any given room, I want to feel something--joy, pleasure, peace. Homes should be enjoyed, not just lived in. Isn't that a good reason to keep coming back?