It’s Monday, August 18, at 11:55pm. Bear with me – I felt like logging in another post before going to bed. Tomorrow’s going to be a busy and interesting day, and while I need some sleep, I also want to ramble a bit about something that occupied my mind for a while tonight.

I have two favorite times of the day – the early morning, when the sun is just starting to rise, and the twilight, when the sky is filled with a palette of color that changes from blues to peaches and pinks to deep oranges and reds before back to deep blues.

Since I’m retired and rarely see early mornings now, twilight has taken top billing. I love the way that, as the light dims outside, the lights in my little house start to illuminate certain corners – the writing nook, the bedroom, and the space at my stereo. I purchased these cool lights (WiZ by Phillips) that can be programmed via an app on my phone to turn on and off and with a myriad of colors, depending on my mood. I especially love the warmer white light for writing and the “ocean” setting, which fills my bedroom with deep blues and greens. I even have these little solar fairy lights for the chiminea planter on the patio.

Well, dang. Just as I was writing this, the timer on my writing nook lamp just shut off, and I’m sitting here in the dark – need to turn it back on for a bit so I can see what I’m doing here and finish this ramble.

Okay, done. Here’s a cool photo of the chiminea at twilight.

But as much as I love my lights, and the way they make my little house feel, there was a time when I dreaded being here in the evening. Actually, I hated it. Almost three years ago, I moved here after my marriage ended. It wasn’t something I was ready to do. After years of living in a larger two-story home with about 2,200 square feet, a garage, a farmhouse-style front porch, and 1.5 acres of beautiful wooded land, I found myself having to move quickly to a little rental house several miles down the road.

And I immediately made up my mind that I hated it. It required downsizing, which meant having to do away with quite a bit of “stuff” I had accumulated over my lifetime. Stuff that I was hanging onto, largely because it held memories of which I wasn’t ready to let go. Since it felt as if everything I’d known was slowly disintegrating, I was holding on for dear life to any boxes I could cram into this poor little house – it didn’t matter what was in them, only that I had them.

I hardly decorated for Christmas my first year here, and the second Christmas, I spent going back and forth to the assisted living facility where my father was under hospice care. But this last Christmas, things changed. I noticed a slight shift in the way I felt about this little rental. Dad passed in January 2024, and I had participated for most of that year in grief counseling, as well as doing some of my own soul-searching.

I sold both the marital home and childhood home within two months of each other – it felt as if I had been uprooted from my foundation. Like an orphan. For the first time, the only home I had was this little one-story rental on a quiet cul-de-sac.

I began spending more time here, alone, processing things. Getting to the heart of why I felt I had to keep as much of the stuff of my past as possible. It occurred to me that holding onto the past alleviated some of my fear of living in the present… and in the unknown of the future. And as I began to let go of the stuff, little by little, this house became a source of comfort. At night, I would wrap up in my favorite blanket and watch TV until I fell asleep and woke up at 3:00am with a crick in my neck and drool on my cheek. I would find an old picture that spoke to me, and I’d hang it on the wall, stand back, and smile. I’d put an old favorite album on the turntable, crank it up, and dance like nobody’s business.

What I realized had changed the most about my feelings toward this place had nothing to do with the physical things I had lost – it had everything to do with how I was beginning to feel, mentally and emotionally.

I was feeling less anxious, less worried and less apprehensive. I was feeling more relaxed and creative. I was beginning to feel happy. And loved. This little house seemed to understand that I needed time to process and grieve, and when I was ready, it welcomed me with open arms. It welcomed me home.

Each night, before I go to bed, I stop outside my bedroom hallway and thank this little rental house for keeping me safe and allowing space to become the person I want to be in this next chapter of life.

There’s no place like home.

Relaxing in the recliner, listening to Mazzy Star on the CD player.

So, before I close up and head to bed (it’s now 1:54am… yeesh), I throw these questions out to you:

What, then, is the definition of “home”? Is it a physical place, is it the feeling that the place gives you, or is it perhaps a little of both? And here’s another thing to ponder – can a person feel like “home”?