the blue muse

I forget how much of a homebody I am until I go away. Just a couple of days, good days, fun days, but I couldn’t wait to get back home, to my tiny little house in the country, my kitties, my own bed.

I am so lucky. Blessed. I know this, I remind myself of this fact, often. Still, there are times when I forget. Going away for a few days is a great way to remind myself.

I have a home. To come back to. Not a perfect home, not extravagant, or even large enough, really. But it is a home, much more than just a tiny house perched atop a hill on this tiny postage stamp of earth that I call mine. But a home in all the ways that matter, all the memories and the gatherings and the milestones and the good times and the sad times and the love. All the things that create a home.

I spent the weekend in a big city. I love to visit cities, so much going on, so cosmopolitan, so filled with life and energy and art, there is always something to see. But I could never live in one, I need my space. I need my silence. I need my hill and my garden and my outdoor fire on cool fall nights.

I need a place to come home to.

I have that, here. I have this back door that I installed myself. (Well, with lots of help from my dad.) But the two steps and the new walls and the floor in the entryway, I did that myself. It took forever, last fall, it was a project I had wanted to tackle since I moved here 23 years ago. My house is an old house from the 40s, with small rooms and arched doorways and a quaint cottage feel. And always something that needs fixing or painting or replacing.

It is a lot of work. But it is also a labor of love. This has been my place for a long time. And while I might venture out to try on other places, see how they fit, learn new things, experience life from a different perspective, I always love walking back through that door. I am always glad to be back where I started. I am always thankful.

You’re welcome, home.