Homes and Introversion

Sometimes I wonder where my obsession with comfort and dwelling and sensory crave for the texture of siding and floors comes from.  Home is such a loaded word and it doesn't always make sense that one goes there in search of people.  It's dubbed as the more noble use for the term.  But this introvert doesn't seek that.

As I crawled within myself this morning to face, rail against,  but eventually absorb the newest development in my life I breathed in the denim smell of my well - worn couch.  I felt the flat stitched seams brush my cheek and knew that this house was holding me.

When we first moved in I beat it.  I could throw a punch in an empty room with the hardy dry wall simply, silently blocking my move.  My sore knuckles found they were no match but the steady house was there.  Did four walls know why the place triggered my panic or stirred up my memories?  Probably no.  But they held their solid ground without flinch.

Did it feel sorry for the smells and the damage it had in store for me?  Of course not.  Because even if it had a heart that heart knew I needed the scrubbing,  the ripping and the pounding to find my way back to meaning, anyhow.

The sun shines through these windows.   And the pipes pump fresh washing water to reset ourselves after a campout.  The laundry spinning,  the dishwasher chugging,  and the food cooling at a monotonous hum.  I am held by the structure and home in my heart.