The ache for home lives in all of us, the safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned.
~ Maya Angelou
We often say "home is where the heart is." I've always thought this was true, but, for me, home is also where I'm most comfortable, most myself, most accepted. Home is the place you go when you are emotionally and physically drained to recharge.
While I have no doubt there is heart in my home, it is not yet a safe place. I'm still looking to find that here.
I am not the easiest person to live with, I know that. I want things my way, on my time, and I can be quite demanding. I wasn't an only child, but that was the way things were in my childhood home: my mother's way on her time. We all played along unless we wanted a stern talking-to. Ha, and I take after my mother after all.
The problem is, I don't feel safe being that way because it causes a lot of friction with Jed. Understandably. I can completely understand how he would not just roll over and play my way. I get that. But, aren't I supposed to be able to be myself at home?
The answer is yes, but with a caveat: I need to let those that live with me be themselves too, and I need to be myself with kindness and respect. My mother mastered that, I haven't inherited that yet.
Truth is, I just want our home to be comfortable. For the first few months we lived here, I was obsessed with having "the perfect house" -- so much that I treated it more like a museum than the place we live. Saying it now, it seems so stupid, but it meant so much to me for a while. I'm getting over that. My home isn't a museum; it's not perfect, but it reflects us and our lives.
I want to be able to come home and feel like myself, happily and peacefully. I want Jed to be able to come home and escape from his day and relax. We're not there, but I think we can be, with a little compromise and a lot of love.
I ache to live together as we are, unquestioned, without expectation.