I’ve moved many times in my life—sometimes from East Coast to West and back, other times from one side of town to the other. I’ve lived in tiny cockroach infested apartments on the wrong side of the tracks to middle-class housing in the suburbs.
But all these places were “home” to me for the shorter or longer period I lived there. I was good at nesting, even when it meant making do with very little.
My first couple of furnished apartments were challenging, I’ll admit. It’s hard to feel at home when you have to carry a can of bug spray with you all the time.
Living on my own taught me quickly how to cook inexpensive meals, how to freshen up the walls with paint, and how to turn foam rubber into all the furniture you need.
I think I was able to be at home anywhere because I’m a homebody. I like to be home more than I like to be out and about.
Home has always been a sanctuary, protecting me from the stress and ambiguity of mixing it up in public places.
The one time home lost that flavor for me was when there was more stress in that environment than outside of it.
In the last year of my marriage to John, after my daughter was born, there was unending stress at home. I found myself grabbing all the overtime I could at work in order to stay away longer. Some evenings I would take the car and drive around aimlessly, trying to think of a solution to our problems.
John and I both avoided home—he did when I was in it, and I did when he was there. We were avoiding each other, really, not home.
And so it was easy to leave that home, leaving everything in it behind, taking just my daughter and one suitcase.
The first apartment I could afford after my daughter and I lived with my parents for six months was in an old house in a so-so part of town. The apartment was not as nice or comfortable as my parents’ house, but it was home to me.
I painted the walls, bought a washer and dryer on a charge card at Sears, and covered a piece of foam to make a bed. Family supplied a used kitchen table and the few other things we needed.
The good thing about having lived in so many places—moving up in the world and moving down again—is that I know I can make a home anywhere I have to.
One time Adrian and I lived right on the beach in Florida on the third floor of a lovely condo with ocean views. But if you can’t pay the rent, those views don’t mean a thing.
Making a home has nothing to do with great views or a walk-in closet. Those are both nice, but still fluff.
