I wonder if I am somewhat unusual but when we moved out of our house a few weeks ago I did not have the emotional response that perhaps would be expected. I had lived there the longest I had ever lived in a house, I had brought up my two children there, divorced, married again, welcomed a step-family into my life and had so many wonderful times there that it seemed odd that I wasn’t in floods of tears as we drove away from the house for the last time. In fact in many senses I had a feeling of relief, not necessarily that I was leaving but that we were leaving it in the hands of another young family, who could and should get the best out of the house as we no longer needed the space that it had and we rarely used it to its advantage in recent years as the family had grown up.
I have lived in so many places in my lifetime and I don’t think of any of those houses as a home, they were places to be, to return to and hold the material things in life. A home is wherever I am with my loved ones and even when we are not together, the home and the feeling of home is very much in my heart. It is not four walls but it is a feeling of love and being loved.
Home is a word that instantly conjures images of a house with loved ones around and laughter echoing around but those things can and do happen whether there are four familiar walls around you or not.
Home when my Mum was alive was a house that I never lived in but it was always filled with love and laughter and each time I drive past that place now it reminds me of those lovely times.
However whilst we are searching for a new house I know we are looking for somewhere where our family will think of as home from home for them, somewhere where they can relax, somewhere where they can be themselves, somewhere where they know there is love.