The house is chilly this morning. We are staying in my brother’s apartment while we look for a new house of our own. His apartment is in this giant old New England wooden home all the way up a winding staircase on the third floor. He lives in a kind of treetop apartment. I look out and see tops of buildings and tops of trees. There’s only looking up that happens here, the ground is too far below. The trees are dancing in the strong wind this morning. The windows are rattling and the house seems to be joining the dance.
The windows haven’t been covered yet for the winter and a cool draft is blowing through this morning. I don’t like to be cold. I’d much rather be curled up in front of a woodstove with bare feet. And so I hug my ceramic mug of fennel tea, curl under the lamp on the desk as I write. Every so often I shuffle over in my slippered feet to peek in on my little daughter, wrapped up snug and deep asleep on a woven rug in the room next door.
And yet, even with the draft and chilly air and being in a place that’s not my own, I am home. I am inside, enveloped, and protected from these wild elements of nature. Today, I am hearth-ing and home-ing and settling in. Later, I will bundle my daughter and I up and we will go out and make the rounds in our community. We will go to the natural food store to buy eggs that I will hard boil for tomorrow’s drive. We will stop into the Mediterranean market to pick up some feta cheese and snacks. We will walk through the park. But for now, I am home.
And, as Thanksgiving creeps near, I am grateful for this home, for all the homes I’ve stayed in and lived in, and for the way that home has always been such a strong thread throughout my life. Grateful for the creaky wood floors and interesting sounds this old house makes. Grateful for this kitchen, where my family’s laundry hangs on the old wooden rack, and where I will heat up the leftover miso soup for lunch today. Grateful for the big windows that allow in the warming light. And grateful for the scenes from my brother’s life: the teabag fortunes, the tiny Buddha, drying peppers hanging on the wall.
Cultivating gratitude for home is a process, a journey, a practice. If you’d like to deepen your own sense of gratitude for home, here are a few pointers to guide you along.
Step One. Say hello to your home. Quietly, loudly, or by opening the doors or pitter pattering across the floor.
Step Two. Listen. Be very quiet. And listen some more. And more. Listen to your home. The inside sounds and the outside sounds. I hear water running through the pipes. The wind. A gentle rattle in the window panes. A truck going by in the distance. And there’s the windchimes again. The water still trickles. Soak in these sounds, let them wash over you.
Step Three. Look. See your home. Let your eyes wander over your home. Let them go where they’re drawn to go. See what you see. I see the sheer white curtains. The bold colors of the flower painting on the wall. This carved wooden head. The wooden floorboards.
Step Four. Tell your sweet home all of the things you are grateful for in it. In my brother’s home, I am grateful for the big, big windows that go all the way down to the floor. The spacious rooms that allow me and my family to spread out and breathe deeply. The sweet white curtains and soft purple floor of the meditation room, the place where my baby is sleeping. The sound of the wind chime outside coming softly through the walls. The open shelves in the kitchen, offering this sweet view of rice and lentils and beans and such.
Step Five. Thank your home. For what you see, for what you hear, for what you feel inside these walls. I thank this home for giving me a place to rest in the midst of chaos, change, and uncertainty.
Step Six. Share a blessing for people everywhere to have a home and to feel the safety of home. To be protected. To love their home. To love themselves. To share their home. May everyone have a warm home, a steady home, a free to be you and me home.
Dear home, I bow to you!
Happy Thanksgiving !
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