Home

My daughter drew a picture of our home when she was five - wobbly green crayon lines, a looming staircase to the front door, little windows out to the world. She taped the drawing near her bed for most of her childhood.

If you asked her today about her home she’d tell you about how I ruined our house by painting over the green with boring taupe, about ping-pong tournaments, post-dinner lounging in the kitchen nook, family dance parties around the island, snuggling under a blanket to binge on Netflix.

Home. A landscape of the heart. A dwelling place for ease, comfort, security, beauty, love, connection, play. It’s refuge and shelter, nest and sanctuary.

Where children and pets roam. Where quiet corners gather dust. Where we read books and share meals. Where beds get unmade and made, music soars, dogs nap, laughter erupts, bodies rest, friends visit.

Our dwellings are containers.

Homes hold toothbrushes and tennis shoes, family photos and fancy clothes, laundry hampers and old vinyl, the unmatched sock and unread magazine, the flotsam and jetsam of life. The shutters’ peeling paint, the back door’s sticky lock, the freshly set dinner table, a lit candle, the guitar that hasn’t been played since your kid left for college. All of it is filler. Just stuff. Not really the heart of the matter. Not by a long shot.

We are on this earth to laugh, to listen, to be touched, to play, to grow, to heal what is broken, to nourish and be nourished, to be there for one another, to use our hands, to create. Home is ground zero for the wild and messy human endeavor that is life. It’s where we refuel, revive, restore, rest, reconnect in the service of life.

So yes, home is a container.

A container for sustenance and connection. Where stories are born and told.

What stories does your home tell?