I fear I’m starting to bore you.
How much can one say about one’s home, really? Turns out, a lot.
Two-thirds of the way through the month, and I must say it’s been a journey. This whole loving my home thing, writing about it, has made me conscious, more deeply aware, of the blessing home is.
I didn’t plan a thing. I didn’t think ahead of post ideas, and I still don’t know where it will end. But the daily reflection on my home and what it means to me has been soul-satisfying.
I worried, when I chose the topic, that it would be too materialistic. I mean, a home is a thing, really. Just stuff inside walls.
But it’s not. That’s a house, maybe, but not a home.
I am a stay-at-home mom. This is the place where I live, work, raise my children. This is the space where I spend most of my time.
I’ve fussed often over the years about my lack. My deficiencies. I’ve spent so much time trying to be better. A better cook. A better housekeeper. A better mother. A better wife. A better decorator. A better organizer.
A better home-maker.
How lovely its been, these past couple of weeks, to just love. I’ve re-fallen in love with this home. I’ve remembered what first drew me to her. I’ve rededicated myself to her care.
But in the process, I’ve fallen in love again with myself. With who I am. I’ve remembered the joy of just being, instead of the pain of trying to be better. Of just doing, instead of trying to do better. Of just loving.
Strange, you may think? Perhaps.
But isn’t love always?