When I think of places, I commonly think of whereabouts I’ve traveled, often forgetting to acknowledge my favorite place on Earth... Home. As we’ve read before on some sappy trending facebook post, “Home isn’t a place, it’s a feeling.” For me, I’m home when I wake up to the smell of coffee brewing and the sound of whispered chatter in the kitchen, home is crunchy fall leaves and crisp air, it’s mum’s homemade chicken soup on my sick days, and a father’s advice when I’m struggling, it’s a museum, a nostalgic song (obvi Country Roads), or a dumb joke. Home is many things, hardly a place; it’s something internal, infact, It can be entirely unrelated to family, and oftentimes is. Sometimes I find myself at home in a class full of strangers, standing in front of a camera, and spewing lines from a piece of crumpled paper. Other days, I find home in a phone call to a bestfriend living hundreds of miles away. So no, home is not merely a place, but a mental space, one that I crave. This space is important to me and most everyone else, but for my creativity, it’s crucial.
By now, I’ve lived in plenty of different houses… Ohio, West Virginia, Kentucky, Ohio again, Maine, and now, Georgia. Through all the moves and resettles, I’ve recognized the key ingredient to my own survival, is creating a space in which I not only live, but thrive. I can acknowledge that my creativity is greatly affected by my surroundings, what I see, what I smell, and what I hear (currently, the 3pm train), making this space even more of a project than it already is. Never having had the luxury of settling, I needed to find a way to house my comfort in something other than a space.
If you know me, you know I’m either the most extroverted introvert, or most introverted extrovert. I get restless in spaces I’m uncomfortable in, so my space has to allow me to decompress. A space that resonates with my thoughts manifests creative energy, making it a vital part of my existence. I’ve filled my spaces with the clutter I’ve collected and drug along the way, rarely having the opportunity (or budget) to invent a home of my own. I need a space that reflects me, that comforts me, it allows me to be still and calm all the while inspiring me to create... not exactly an ad in the newspaper.
I’ve lived with several different roommates by now, a college roommate, 3 guys in Cincinnati and that one dude who slept on the couch, and most recently, 3 of the most important people who contributed to my homage in Atlanta. Luckily, I moved into a house where I found myself already at Home. Mum’s chicken soup became Jaxon’s cuddles (the dog, not my roommate. Gross), the smell of coffee became Joey’s cooking after we had a long day of working, and the sound of chatter in the kitchen became Peter’s girlfriend spending another night (romance is important, don’t suppress it).
After one of the best years of my life, it was time to make a new home, this time, just for me. I wanted a space separate of my new family, so I could create and decompress on my own terms. I was ready for this new adventure, but I wasn’t ready for all that would come with it (for instance, all the kitchen utensils I needed to acquire). After applying for a sweet little studio, I was approved just a week before I was required to move-in; Stress, my specialty. I packed and unpacked the same clutter I’ve drug along with me this far. I sat on the cement floor of my new space (rugs are expensive, I’ll get there), barely enough belongings to fill the room, I took a deep breath and smiled.
Honey, I’m Home.