When a House Becomes a Home

I often think about the words house versus home. Sometimes they are synonymous with one another. Sometimes they aren’t. While VB has been my home for some time now, I’ve always called the place where I reside a house. It could’ve been an apartment, a condo, a townhouse, or an actual house. It didn’t matter. As I settle into this place I purchased on my own, I find myself still struggling to call it a home. It’s my house, yes. But those definitive lines seemed to blur today as I literally dumped and crushed every last box. I was determined to make this house MY home.

The symbolic act of depleting my home of the simple cardboard box, a ways and means to maneuver one’s belongings from one place of residence to another, truly allowed the idea of my home to settle in. I have no need for the box any particular item came in. I am not saving it for the next move. I can truly put away the packing tape. I can proudly display both grandmother’s blenders proudly on a kitchen rack instead of keeping them swaddled in cloths and nestled in boxes marked “fragile,” and “NO, REALLY- I mean FRAGILE.”

As I slit the last piece of tape, and crushed the last box. I felt a sense of being grounded, of relief. No need to worry about how or why something will be shuffled around. No need to worry at all. Well, maybe a little about Murphy’s crazy, constantly wagging tail. And the sense of happy has come full circle again. #happyadventures

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