A great deal of thinking energy and building energy goes into making of the shell of our home, the house. However, it is the inner space that we inhabit. Better said, how we feel inside the interior space of our house determines wether or not we, our souls to be specific, feel at home.
But our minds and senses play in delight into the sea of intelligently abundantly offered possibilities, the styles, the designs, the textures, the colors, the “feel of”, the trends, our souls lie forgotten somewhere over the rainbows of our childhood, where we last left them. And we franticly run to the next new thing, the next better house, better build, more efficient, more beautiful, more in style, better location, bigger (or smaller), greener, bluer, reder, and above all, better neighbors, to be specific neighbors exactly like us. And yet we still don’t feel fulfilled.
If we only play this finding the next cool house game for fun, well … that’s a different matter. But if we are seeking a house, the perfect house, the idea of a perfect house, expecting it to fulfill us, to complete us, to make us happy, we might be going the wrong way about it.
A home is a clean bare canvas made of walls, ceiling and floor. It might be all white, white and light blue, light green or light yellow, cream or grey. A neutral color. Or no color at all.
Then, we call back our souls to employ as interior designer. They will remind us of our favorite childhood games (because the soul does not change over time, a constant quality all through our life) our favorite activities, stories, our (real) interests, our (real) simple joys. They will show us what (really) matters to us right now. All these will provide precious insights about the objects we (really) love, we (really) desire to bring and keep in our space.
Remember grandma’s house. Was it the mouthwatering fragrance of slowly quietly attentively made apple pie? Was it the smell of dried medicinal plants hanging above in bunches? Was it her books? Her radio? The small windows looking out in the garden? The white Damascus tablecloth? The worn silverware? The copper pots by the wooden stove? Or the wooden stove itself? Was it grandma’s stories? Her voice? Was it her own peaceful completely accepting demeanor? Or perhaps just her soft blanket it’s all.
The world is the probably most possibly treacherous place we go to play out our personalities.
Home is where our inner child returns to sit and be wholly soulfully, feeling safe and cozy.
“It’s the little things.”
The smaller the things (to worry about), the more space for our souls to fill.