Home is a feeling of happiness and security, like waking up to the sound of tea boiling and to the smell of pancakes baking as a child. It is a repetition of happy actions, of being able to grow amongst people that will spare you of judgment, but provide you with harsh criticism when necessary, and a momentum that keeps you feeling grounded when the wind of life moves too quickly to keep pace with. Growing up has taught me that, like plants, we have the ability to grow tiny homes wherever our seeds of happiness desire to take root, and as you get older, it becomes important how carefully you choose where to plant these seeds.
I have been growing homes of all shapes and sizes within people, within many corners of the world, and even in worlds beyond the imagination that emerge in the form of ink. Some of these homes stand larger than life size and greater than any mountain range, while others sit smaller on the edge of a cliff, waiting to re-build, no matter the depth of the fall. The quantity of the number of homes we have is never important, because feelings and memories are not a numerical calculation, but a testament to the quality of life we aspire to create.
I have had a home in Sacramento, California since I was 8 years old. In that home, I learned how to share a room with my sister, how to ride a bike in my driveway, and watched the wall paint peel year by year until my parents re-painted it. However, within that home are the most important homes that sometimes I grow tired of, sometimes I need my space from, but for the most part I always come back to them, because they remind me of that feeling of happiness and security. My mom is the home that is always welcoming with a warm hug, and you know she will always boil tea and fill every room with the aroma of her cooking. My dad is the kind of home you have to knock on the door for several minutes, but when he finally opens up, he will always have the same pictures hanging on the wall that were placed since the home was built, because secretly he also fears change. My siblings are three tiny homes connected, whether they like it or not, and every time I visit them, they are always re-modeling, but the smell is always the same sugary scent of syrup drenched on a Sunday morning pancake.
These were my first homes, my first seeds I grew with baby hands and eager eyes. They have taught me that the foundation of any future home I build has to be sturdy or a the home is not worth building my time and love into. Every home is allowed to have its flaws, but if the home is so flawed to the point that you cannot ever live in it or you always find yourself calling it a house, then you have to learn to bid farewell to that home. However, more than anything, even though sometimes we grow tired of our different homes and it becomes difficult to maintain all of them as we get older, we should never forget our homes. Every home is a gateway to a memory, a feeling, and no matter how many times we try to replicate these homes they never will replicate the same memories and feelings. Just like we watch our seeds grow by watering our plants, we should always remember to visit the homes we have grown, because otherwise we will forget to grow up ourselves.
