Time spent at home is not wasted. I have been paying attention to mine lately. I don't think I noticed before how little we really take care of our homes on an everyday basis. Yes, we cook and clean as necessary. But that’s about it. When we first move in, we set it up, and sometimes have big plans for it that are seldom executed. Over the years, life goes on and these floors that cradle us through good times and bad, suffer through all our abuses. These walls that hold our secrets, we never really pay attention to any of them. We don't take the time to see the beautiful craftsmanship of the arches in the hallway, to recall the memories made in each room, to notice the scars we have given it over the years, to hear the sound of laughter, to listen to the echos of the parties we've thrown, the haunting of the loneliness we've felt.
We don't even pay attention to it’s own sounds, what it’s trying to tell us - here is a creaky window that could use some love, there is an old stain on the floor we keep hiding behind the bar cart, but we could just clean it for once. A wobbly door handle has been begging to tighten its screws. All it needs is a Phillips-Head and fifteen minutes. That picture sitting by the wall is eager to be hung for three years now as you walk by it yet again. These days I have been taking the time to listen to my house's sounds and rustles. I have been running my hand against its walls and counters. I have been slowly patching up its wounds. Because even in these very uncertain times, when the whole world is shifting and changing without a warning, this is my home. This is my safe place, my neutral space, the one spot in the world where I can be entirely at ease. There is still calmness and warmth here, trying its best to keep me sane. and I hope I can return the favor.