This is a difficult thing for me to come to grips with. This little house, might be getting too big for us. Our youngest is sixteen and a sophomore in high school. His older brother will be home this summer, but I do not know how many summers he will continue to spend in his old room. The other kids, our daughter and eldest son, have their own places now.
I think we need to start sorting out things and glean what we want to keep and get rid of the rest. Maybe move into a smaller place. But I like our garden, and the space to spread out and leave things set up, like the sewing machine and my easel. My husband and I both like books. We could line a room with shelves, from floor to ceiling. Then properly place all of the volumes we have in orderly rows, instead of dusty stacks.
I have only lived in one other house longer than this one, and that was the house my parents moved to when I was in fourth grade. Houses are not homes. It is what you do in them that makes them a home. The space you fill and what you fill it up with are the comforts of life. The familiar is like a talisman that says to the Universe, “This is my place. These are my energies and how I have directed them.” It makes me thankful for what I have had, and do have.
As I drive into town on errands and see the inevitable homeless man or woman with a cardboard sign lettered with, “Anything helps” I am saddened that they do not have a place to go back to that is familiar and their own. What is wrong with our nation that we have so many individuals now, standing on the street corners, through winter snows and summer heat, asking for help for a meal or a bed? It makes me ashamed. I know I am not alone in this shame. There are so many in need, can’t we do more as a country to give more and see to it that no one freezes at night, or goes hungry in our nation?