Once a long time ago, way back when I was married, I heard or read someone talking about their home being their safe haven. I loved that concept, particularly because my own home wasn’t that at the time. Every so often in the past several years, since I’ve had my own home, I’ve managed to create that feeling, but never completely. It’s funny, it felt that way the most when I lived with someone else, who wasn’t even anyone I should have been living with. He kept it cleaner (maybe because he didn’t work as much as I did!) and we did things like work in the yard and cook together. It felt like something was always happening here. Now rather than a safe haven it kind of feels like a black hole. I come home with intentions to do things like clean, plant flowers, get rid of stuff I don’t need, go for a walk, do something creative. But all I do is read and click around on my computer. I seem to do just about anything but create that feeling of a haven that I so long for. I look around and don’t know where to begin to clean it and make it lovely, so I just open a book. Or make a comment on Twitter or check my email again.
I recognize that these are the signs of depression. And that I have it, in varying degrees. I’m thinking about the chicken and the egg, which came first thing. Like if I suck it up and slog through cleaning and decluttering (what a buzzword that is), altar creating, maybe I will begin to feel safe and creative here. Certainly I’ll feel like inviting friends over, which I never do anymore. I kind of go along thinking that once I am not depressed any more I will make my house lovely, rather than the opposite. It’s certainly worth a try. One foot in front of the other. Step by step…photos to follow.