finding home

I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor in a room with no furniture, sandwiched between a cardboard box marked “kitchen utensils” and a rubber tote full of dvds.  I’m surrounded by boxes and boxes of stuff.  Stuff that’s so temporary. Wooden spoons come and go. Plastic spatulas have a 1-year life expectancy. I enjoy my iron bed and the dresser I painted myself but they’re also momentary. Mine to enjoy for the moment.

The disorder of my current living quarters and the objects within heightens my awareness of reality: I am just passing through this world. Cozy blankets and colorful photographs provide me with a sense of familiarity but they never quite satisfy the fullness of my need to belong. I’m certain sense of belonging or “home” is never going to be found among easy chairs or draping curtains. “Home” offers something that furnishings can never provide…


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