Do you remember the house you grew up in?
The house that first held your laughter, your tears, your fears, your secrets?
House; Home; Casa; Castle; Igloo; Yurt or Tent! Whatever you called it, it was there you could unload the backpack of daily concerns and just be yourself.
For many, we have fond memories of that first place we lovingly called home. A place that was our safe place, our haven, our sanctuary to feel whole and healed and heartened. But for some the memories of that first place they called home are not so fond.
Broken homes; shattered homes; violent homes; orphan homes; no home. Those memories of that place and those times for some, are best left in the past, buried, burned or banished from holding any attachment to who we are now.
I think a home defines us.
When we first walk through the door of a dwelling that is to become our home, it is generally just looking around and seeing walls, floors and feeling and smelling an awareness of the unfamiliar. We then make it a home. We bring our own belongings and place them where it works for us. We hang things on walls to make it all about us. We bring our own sense of energy, style, pizzazz or sparkle so that at the end of our day we can walk in, dump the backpack of daily worries and concerns and just strip down to where we are most at ease in our own four walls.
Remembering the places that first held our laughter, our tears, our fears and our secrets is all part of the stories of where we came from. They open the doorways to where we are going. For many of us there will be new thresholds to cross and new pictures to hang on different walls. The secret is, to be aware that there will be stories that that house will have in store just for you. Embrace them, learn from them and most importantly…tell the ones you want to be remembered.