I think that there was a time when I found "home" to be a place of comfort, a place to retreat to. A place where you could find hygge and it was all good. Weirdly, I recall feeling like this the first time in my college dorm room junior year. It was uniquely my space even if I didn't really own it. I felt it now and then in my first house, too. Once it was obvious that I was getting divorced, and especially after moving cross-country, the feeling was far more elusive. I remember it briefly in winter in Snoqualmie, and a little bit once we moved into our current place, but that's kind of it.
It's hard for me to even think about what home means anymore. I mean, sure, it's the place you live most of the time, but if I had to change it tomorrow, I can't say that I'd be particularly nostalgic about it. I don't know if it's because I also work in the same place or what, but it kind of bothers me. I mentioned at the end of my annual retrospective that sometimes I feel like I need to escape, but where do I escape to? For the most part, getting away for me means traveling where I can turn off my brain.
When my brother-in-law's family was here last week, we compared stories about our houses, built by the same builder 2,500 miles apart, and the things that have not aged well. While they're not likely to have the HVAC challenges in the Pacific Northwest, they've had other issues like the worst possible carpet ever. The crap that Pulte used has matted, bunched up, wrinkled and looks like a dozen people have lived here for 30 years. There's nothing cozy feeling about it. We have a chair that for some reason has been destroyed by one of the current cats, which is weird because I've never had a cat that messed up furniture. The cheap cabinets are showing wear after only seven years. We still hate our bathroom that we're not going to renovate.
I realize that my first mistake is measuring home comfort by way of how nice things are. Home is at its best when my little family unit is here, but with staggered work schedules and school (and my kid being a teenager), that's not always possible. I remember when I was truly living alone for two years that sometimes I had to go out of my way to feel comfortable. It generally involved the fireplace, blankets and movies or video games, but as much as I got used to flying solo, I was never in any hurry to get home.
If you ask me where I feel most content, it's usually near the ocean. I still can't shake the feeling of the Vrbo we rented about four years ago, in Melbourne Beach. But I also felt it in some of the ports we visited in Europe. I always feel it aboard the ships. I haven't figured out how to feel that in the place with my name on the title.
Regardless, I guess we have to replace the stupid carpet.
No comments yet.