When does "home" truly become home?
I've been here a couple weeks now. Most everything is out of boxes & organized. Its my stuff, in my new apartment, yet it doesn't quite feel like home. Maybe I need more time to establish a rhythm. The size of this place is bigger than my last place- there's room to move, room to breathe. Less potential for clutter. Its quieter- I don't share paper thin walls with late night musicians or tv addicts. There's a busy street about a half a block away, but it doesn't seem to bother me like this new found silence does. I turned the fan on to sleep the other night. It seemed to help. My patio (& I do have one) is bordered by holly trees, which are filled with all kinds of birds & squirrels... They seem particularly happy when it rains. The drive to work is slower, but shorter... and I pass the river on the way in- always a treat. I don't have to take the freeway anymore & I don't have to drive home down narrow, pot holed side streets filled with vehicles that should be in the junk yard... I've seen no homeless since being here- no one drunk & muttering, pushing a cart full of cans... no one on the corner holding a clever sign about being out of work or needing beer... And while my new neighborhood isn't quintessential, I have to admit, its not bad.
So when does home truly become home? With all its flaws, what is it that made my last place "home"? And what will it take to find a home here?
Perhaps, as with many things, it just takes time. A new dwelling is a clean slate of sorts- while one carries vestiges of "home" with them, there are addendums to the perception of home yet to be made... I will learn more about my neighbors, more about where I belong & where I don't, what to part with & what to keep. I will learn how to live anew, & eventually, how to make this place mine...