home & self
October 10, 2013 § 11 Comments
Occasionally I will look at my home with the removed curiosity of an anthropologist. Familiar items and assumed routines become evidence of our home’s inhabitants’ lives; clues that encapsulate our personalities, sometimes betraying little secrets.
My children are harmless hoarders, they store pieces of unremarkable items with the reverence of explorers gathering evidence of their journey with peculiar treasures. Pant pockets and book bags are weighted with pieces of discarded objects and scraps of paper. Both children’s rooms are fun house mirrors of identity, elements of their space orchestrated to nurture play and rest; their truest selves are most apparent in corners marked by personal distractions. I could outline their reflections in the shape of their clutter, but it would only dismiss me of looking inward.
Our home is a kind guardian of my own secrets. For all the care I place in the appearance of structure, there is a quiet chaos; like creaks in floor boards that whisper of stories past, just beneath the surface old ghosts slumber. My weaknesses are tucked in drawers and dark corners, poorly hidden but ever present. Insecurities and personal failing piled haphazardly out of sight. If I disappeared from my day, I wonder how long my truths would hide in the shadow of assumptions.
Distracted by books I tend to lose myself in stories rather than draft my own. I look to reference books to navigate the unknown; inspirational encouragement to contain fear; and fiction to escape reality – small coping tools that underscore my uncertainties. I gather pieces of favorite memories into tidy boxes to guard them against harm rather than unfolding them more casually into the fabric of our home.
In many ways these little personal truths are my oldest companions. Looking back to early days as a child navigating my divorced parents’ homes, I remember creating my space in such a way that my treasures were near but guarded from harm; projecting reflections of self into foreign space while holding tender pieces safe by hiding in the pages of novels. The uncertainties of my earliest worries manifested later in my teenage years as eating disorders and poor choices, pleasure and control masking sadness and need. I wonder how many of these same fears and insecurities linger in corners of my home; self concealed in a safe haven.
Book titles that hint at worries and unfinished projects that speak of inconsistencies; missing purchases that anchor me to tasks undone; dusty surfaces and unvacuumed corners that betray my distraction; beloved treasures stored safely out of sight to guard a memory. How much of my story could be divulged in the details of home?
scribblechic 
Excellent and enjoyable piece of writing! I believe our homes do tell many of our stories.
Thank you! Sometimes a superficial imperfection, like a scratch on the hardwood floors, triggers a stream of memories for me; walking into each room akin to turning pages in a well-loved book. Other pieces of our story can be more intimate and harder for others to interpret. Still, I like to think our whole selves, not necessarily our best selves, are evident in details of our home.
I absolutely agree!
So artfully put. Home, to me, is safety. Security. Joy. Peace. In a very tangible way. I’ve worked to try to take home with me wherever I go by keeping it inside–but I think we all so identify with the physical places we’ve lived.
To me the essence of home rests in those individuals with whom my life is linked with love. A home is just a house without the value we ascribe to the walls that hold us safe and bear witness to our story. Safety, security, joy and peace are a beautiful foundation – one that does, indeed, follow you.
Sometimes the artifacts can be interpreted to reveal coherent stories. Often, though, despite our best efforts, no clear pattern can be discerned. At times like those we are left with a decision: fill in the gaps in a way that makes the story fit our current biases and values or resign ourselves to the possibility that there is not always a clear line joining cause and effect.
As an aside you should know there was a gap between my reading the post (on my phone waiting for sons 1-3 to finish classes at Uni) and now (at the laptop and about to start preparing the evening meal). It occurred to me on the short drive home that I look forward to seeing this graceful, thoughtful writing style turned in service to a more lengthy narrative.
I see books 🙂
Thank you! I look forward to the kind, compassionate commentary that has accompanied my experience in this space. Each writing is an act of faith in self and others, an exercise in vulnerability as I continue to learn and explore my days.
I think you’re well on your way to drafting your own stories. And I hope you’ll continue to acknowledge and reveal your fears and insecurities, along with your observations and insights — they are what ties us all together.
The effort of dismantling my armor is eased by the kind company of compassionate readers willing to hold my fears and insecurities safe while I make myself more vulnerable. Thank you.
Love this inside out view of your own home. Makes me think about my own dwelling differently.
The idea that one might turn toward their own home with a curious eye makes my heart smile. Thank you!