A few minutes ago, I clambered out of my car and gathered up my bags and trudged up the stairs to the door. I used my key to let myself in, and plopped down in my chair. I pet the dogs and the cats, and pulled my laptop out of my bag, connecting to the house wireless.
This is only remarkable because this is not my own home. This is the lovely home of my friends Jenn and Jim. But I am encouraged to treat it as my own home, and am constantly reassured that I am welcome any time I want to make the trek down.
This got me to thinking a little bit about how lucky I am. I have not one, not two, but three homes (Jer and Shamala also provide me with a lovely home). Places where I am comfortable, and know that I can be me. Even if being me means that I need to sleep, or be grumpy, or be completely antisocial, or be silly. Places where I can rummage in the fridge and go through the pantry. Places where I’ve stashed toiletries, because it’s easier than carrying them back and forth all the time. (And Amy, I haven’t forgotten that your house was once one of my homes, too!)
Growing up, I never felt comfortable in my own home, so those friends’ places where I could really relax were dear to me. As an adult, I’m so much more aware of the overarching idea of personal space and the intrusion of same, so finding these little oases is even more startling. As much as I love the home that G and I share with Sprocket and Widget, it’s wonderful to be able to feel so comfortable in someone else’s space.
