Saturday, February 28, 2015


It took me years to accept that I was a homebody. I thought that I needed to be a go-go-see-visit person to be fulfilled. That may be the truth for some but the truth for me is that home is what fills me up when I'm empty, home is what soothes me when I'm stressed, home is where I feel the most happy. I am a traveler and a lover of visiting my friends and family but at the end of all the trips, long or short, I am always so very pleased to come home.
Home to me is a cozy couch where I used to practice my violin that I now sit on to knit. Home to me is a basket full of borrowed library books in the living room and bookshelves full of owned books in the office. Home to me is yellow walls in the kitchen and yellow walls in the dinning room. Home to me is light (oh the light here, I'll miss it so when we leave) streaming through the windows. Home to me is wood floors gifted to me by my husband, no gift can be sweeter--or dustier. Home to me is filled with the things I treasure: coffee mugs, antlers, antiques, and brass birds. Home to me, of course, is not just the walls around and the stuff within it's the feeling of peace and security and the husband who makes here home with me.

At the end of a work day or a weekend away 
there is no greater feeling than opening the front door, 
setting down my bags, and sinking into home, sweet home.

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