Last month we were able to stay at the family home of my sweet friend. It was beautiful, wonderful, lovely, refreshing, cool and all the things we needed.
The view was almost too much. I cried when we walked out into the yard the first time. Just cut right out of the mountain.
All day long butterflies and bees hummed around as we soaked up the beauty before us.
We hiked off to waterfalls but we always hightailed it back to this little piece of home.
As a small girl, I dreamt of my piece of story place. Where picket fences and suits and blouses with big bows met home cooked meals and that one specific smell that meant you could kick your dirt filled shoes in the corner and curl up tight.
I dreamt of my own home.
I’ve been thinking a good bit about home.
About 31 Days, too. Last year I wrote about determined joy. And I haven’t completely decided whether or not I’ll do it this year mostly because I’m thinking of doing something a bit different, of writing about home for 31 straight days. Not designing, although I love to read about and be inspired by design. Not arranging, although I do my fair share of that and my husband is about ready to stage an intervention of epic proportions.
I’m thinking of writing about home home. That piece you carry around inside you that makes you who you are. That deep down feeling you dreamt of even if it was in peachy and mauve dated tones. I’m thinking I’d approach it like I do (or did) a lesson. With digging into roots and meanings and research, really exploring how to build a sense of belonging and the why of it all, too. It’s very dear to me. And maybe? Just maybe? Some sprinkled in pictures of my own home and the story pieces in it?
It’s awful different than what I’ve been writing about. And mostly I’d be learning as I write. How about it? What do you say we study this thing called home together?