The One Where a House Is Just a House
I was thinking this weekend about how devastating it must be to be in New Orleans right now and how upset I would be if I lost my home. Then it hit me that I really wouldn't be upset. I can't pretend that I would. Of course it would be devastating from the standpoint that you had nothing and no money to refill the new home that you moved into, but I've never really been into material things. I can buy new furniture. I can get new clothes (even though I hate shopping !!!). As long as Ross and the kids were OK, I can't really think of anything I would lose that would really hurt me. If I lost my computer, I would lose all the things I've been writing and that would suck. If I lost my book collection, I would definitely be disappointed as I have so many books that I still want to read, and I've been building that collection for several years now. It would be sad to lose all the pictures of my college friends and of my pups when they were younger. But you would still have your memories, and that's what's really important anyway -- all of the valuable memories that you store inside you.
You always hear people talking about how sad they are that their parents are selling their childhood home or whatever, but I don't feel that way. Mon and I were talking about that last night -- how we'd never be so attached to an area that we'd keep rebuilding in a situation like they're facing in New Orleans. My parents are in the process of selling my childhood home, and it will probably belong to someone else the next time I finally get home. I couldn't care less. It's a house. All of the things I wanted to keep I took with me a long time ago. My room quit being my room when my mom took down all of my posters to make a living room for my brother. I felt like a visitor in that house from that point on because my brother made it clear that when I came home to visit I was intruding on his space. It's not my home anymore. I made my own home and that can be anywhere as long as Ross and my pups are there. The house doesn't make it a home. The area you live doesn't make it your home. The love inside makes the home. And as long as that survives, it doesn't matter how much of your stuff does. That's how I feel, at least.
You always hear people talking about how sad they are that their parents are selling their childhood home or whatever, but I don't feel that way. Mon and I were talking about that last night -- how we'd never be so attached to an area that we'd keep rebuilding in a situation like they're facing in New Orleans. My parents are in the process of selling my childhood home, and it will probably belong to someone else the next time I finally get home. I couldn't care less. It's a house. All of the things I wanted to keep I took with me a long time ago. My room quit being my room when my mom took down all of my posters to make a living room for my brother. I felt like a visitor in that house from that point on because my brother made it clear that when I came home to visit I was intruding on his space. It's not my home anymore. I made my own home and that can be anywhere as long as Ross and my pups are there. The house doesn't make it a home. The area you live doesn't make it your home. The love inside makes the home. And as long as that survives, it doesn't matter how much of your stuff does. That's how I feel, at least.
posted by Rachel at
9:10 AM
1 Comments:
That's exactly right. We lost a lot when the furniture store burned down, but it can all be replaced, or you just figure you don't need it anymore. Memories are often better than reality anyway! And you can make room for new special stuff and special memories.
By
Diana, at 12:45 PM
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