When a House Becomes a Home

For the past couple of years I have not felt like I’ve had a home, a place to be. I’ve spent so much time running and running and running. I don’t feel like I can find the words to express how I’ve been feeling. I’ve spent very almost no time just being. Running from myself, running from grief, just running, just going.

Several years ago I bought a beautiful red couch from Macy’s. On one end it has a chaise lounge. I’d always wanted a chaise lounge, yet, even after the delivery people brought the red couch I never utilized the chaise portion. I sat mostly on the other end with my feet propped up on the coffee table.

Don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed it. I just didn’t have a home. A place where I felt I belonged. That means something to me. Belonging.

In my previous apartment it took me months before I put a nail in the wall. In my current apartment, I put nails in right away. Actually, I had all my boxes unpacked and everything put away within twenty-four hours of moving in, but the nails in the walls, the pictures and the Iguanas adorning the apartment never made it feel like home.

Several weeks ago, something inside me shifted. I can’t explain it, but an unmistakable transmutation occurred. I had arranged to have my carpets cleaned, which meant I had to clean and somewhat declutter. In the process of re-arranging my “stuff” I felt it. I felt the transformation. Somehow, in those moments in time, my house, my apartment became my home. Maybe because this time I cleaned for myself and not for others.

I started putting out my Halloween decorations. Many of them still await their placement though. I bought a spider web candelabra and put tea lights in it and spent several hours one night just watching the lights flicker. I put pictures of me and my dad in prominent places by the television, an act love, not one of sadness. I wanted to spend time in my home. Somehow my apartment had become my home. It evolved from a place to live to a place to be. And I want to relish in that state of being.

I wish I could say the following with more sophisticated elegance. It’s not that my apartment has become my home; I have become and I am becoming more comfortable in my own skin. More willing to live my life without seeking the approval of others.

I don’t know where all this will lead, but I know this: I have the deepest gratitude for those on this journey with me who support and love me, including those who watch over me from above.

And if you’d like to see pictures of my decorations as they go up, then follow me on facebook. I have some colorful decorations that I’ll post pictures of!

My HallowChristmas Coffee Table: Where Two Holidays Collide!

My HallowChristmas Coffee Table: Where Two Holidays Collide!

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About Nancy A. Taylor

I'm a woman on a mission to create, manifest, and design the life that is perfect for me through travel, yoga, and mindful living. You can find me on facebook: https://www.facebook.com/TaylorMadeNancy/
This entry was posted in grief, Transformation and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to When a House Becomes a Home

  1. bgriffey2013 says:

    It seems that for everyone, being comfortable in our own skin and with our own life takes a lifetime! As we get older, we finally get comfortable with the person closest to us — ourselves. It must be some kind of cosmic joke! As they say, youth is wasted on the young. If I only knew as much then as I know now and which, some of the time, I can put into practice at this late stage.

    Elizabeth Gilbert said something in her Oprah Super Soul interview about thinking that as a young teen and twenty something she would have profited more by getting to know herself rather than chasing after boys and other things. Good advice at any age. Onward on your journey!!!!

  2. calniki says:

    As always, still moving forward in a positive direction. So proud of you! Very insightful blog Nancy! Keep moving forward! 🙂 P.s. Love the decorations! 🙂

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