My first home was where I grew up, in Southern California, on a cul-de-sac with a single row of houses. Across the street was a large parking lot and the backdoor of the most fabulous pizza place ever created. My sister and I would walk over there after school… it was just a small ‘mom and pop’ type place. Take-out only. Pizza only. No calzones, no pasta. Just pizza and salad. They knew us by name. “It’s the Krishnamurty girls!”
It was a great place to grow up. We played outside, climbed trees, rode bikes, did stupid things we probably shouldn’t have survived…
Between the time I moved out (at 18) to the time I moved into my current residence (at 25), I didn’t have a home. That’s not to say I didn’t have a place to sleep, or a place to live. But I didn’t have a home. I wasn’t invested in any of them, and they weren’t invested in me.
My current house is a home. I can walk from one end to the other in the dark and not get scared. I know every inch of it by memory. It’s an ongoing project… the wallpaper in the kitchen needs to be peeled (and it needs painting), it needs new flooring, the yard needs work, it needs TLC in many ways… but it’s mine.
It’s not just a place for me to hang my hat.
It’s a place for me to hang my heart.