True Home

a poem about homes

I am grateful for this floor
that's held me up right

for the walls
that dimmed the light

for this roof
sheltering me

for this garden
sprouting me anew

for the back porch
hearing my stories

for this bathtub
cleansing me whole.

I am grateful for this home
creating me true.

House and home means a great deal to me. I often find myself slowly wandering around my house, going from room to room, soaking in the ambiance of each space, the way the light hits the walls, how the decor says something about the energy there.

Home was often a violent place for me when I was a child. Mess and clutter and chaos meant my needs weren’t met— I wasn’t safe.

As a teenager, I developed a tick. I couldn’t fall asleep with my room a mess. Sometimes I would wake my mother up vacuuming my room at midnight.

Places and things hold energy.

As an adult, I get to make my home the way I want it. I choose things that mean something to me. I have purchased a piece of art from every different country I’ve traveled to. And I’ve received many beautiful pieces of art as gifts from people I hold dear.

And my home is filled with the love that radiates from these objects.

I like to believe a house has an essence.

Recently, I moved into a new home. And I’ve been taking my time arriving. I am getting to know this new house, yes. But, she is also getting to know me. We’re forming a new bond, a friendship and a lovership even. She will take care of me— will keep me safe, warm, watered. I’ll take care of her too. I’ll make sure her dusty bones are kept upright, sorted, and cleansed. We’ll look after each other and there will be an imprint. For us both.

It’s sacred and it’s a tad magical.

Take care of your spaces. Touch the walls. Lay on the floors.

Write poems for your home.