We bought our house in Granada almost 18 months ago and we're just starting to take steps to frame and hang some art on the walls. It feels like a significant step away from the blank walls that were a feature of renting. When I first moved to London I tried various ways to display art in the form of postcards and small prints, but even blu-tack leaves marks on damp London walls. So after a while I stopped trying, to avoid risking my bond, and because we moved too frequently to buy anything that didn't easily fit into a suitcase.
Living in this casita is the first time since moving overseas that I've really felt connected to the concept of home as a place. It's not that there wasn't an abundance of love and safety in apartments we rented in the past, but those concepts were more rooted in the people I loved, rather than being tied to a specific place.
And it's not that I don't think it's possible to build a home in a rental flat; it's more that until now our living situations felt quite transitory. I was focused on work and escaping through travel when I had time off. Those experiences were more important than the setup of the spaces we lived in, which every landlord inexplicably crammed full of chairs. We moved flats and countries, and for a long time after I left Australia, home was the echo of the house I grew up in.
Connection to place isn't something I actively realised I was missing until it bloomed here. This house is an eccentric and wiser older sister who gets cranky when it gets too hot or I don't pay enough attention to her. But who also gives me the space to be myself and express my wildest creative imaginings. So here is my ode to this home, constructed of hundreds of moments of repeating yet shifting experiences.
Home is Skye's lead hanging on the back of the door, ready for tomorrow morning's walk; the aloe vera my husband propagated thriving in the stairwell; having the confidence to buy a hardcopy book for keeps; the scent of the basil I just cut on the terrace for my husband to garnish his slow-cooked pasta sauce with; a splash of coffee I've spilled on the lounge-room tiles, no matter how often I mop; having a safe space to process difficult emotions; the freedom to hammer a nail into the wall to hang up a picture, without worrying about losing your bond, even if we haven't actually done it yet; the hot water occasionally running out in the middle of a shower because I didn't realise the gas bottle was low; saying good morning to my neighbours when I leave for the grocer's, even though there's one old man who never says it back.
Home is Skye falling asleep in my lap while I reread a favourite fantasy novel, then barking ferociously five minutes later when the washing machine cycle ends; Skye moving from hatred to wariness to tentative acceptance of the vacuum cleaner; all the protein bars I've stockpiled for a bad food day; eating on the dining room chairs we varnished and upholstered in turquoise fabric with support from so many people in our local community; orange curtains whispering in the late-afternoon breeze as I write these words; the mint-green walls that are slowly growing on me, especially since I painted the entryway in gouache; working out how to repair or replace things when they break; feeling safe and loved.
Home is indulging in the local chocolate ice-cream that's only sold by a specific grocery store that simultaneously reminds me of the paddle pops of my childhood while still managing to be its own experience; our determination to grow flowers on the front windowsill, even though our first three attempts wilted in the heat; my workspace slowly morphing into an engine of chaos and creativity, until I'm forced to clean it to find a space to paint; journalling with my morning coffee in the patio in the coolness of the morning, surrounded by the smell of jasmine; learning the rhythm of the paper wasps who build a nest every spring under the patio eaves; an impromptu concert in the living room; conversations with my husband about dreams and plans and politics from the couch I've made a nest in; learning the rhythms of the seasons and the light; savouring these experiences in the moment.
Home is that.
Before we moved to Granada, I was focused on running towards something (even if I couldn't have articulated exactly what that was other than some amorphous sense of security or success). I didn't realise that I'd forgotten to learn how to rest, how to let myself grow roots in the present, so that when I started to run again, I was still tethered to that safety line; able to roam and then come back to myself when I needed to.
This ode was inspired by one of my favourite mantras for meditating: So Hum or I am that. You mentally say "So" to yourself as you inhale and "Hum" as you exhale. My first yoga teacher in Granada taught me the practice during an evening class soon after we'd moved to the city, and I remember sleeping so well that night. So it's a practice that's intimately tied to this place.
I like to use the So Hum mantra at the end of my yoga practice to ground myself in the present moment and just be. If you'd like to try it yourself, here's a short practice from Ally Boothroyd recorded at the beach at sunset. She also does some great yoga nidra practices, which are my favourite alternative to an afternoon nap!
What does home mean to you? How has the concept of home changed for you over time?
Sketches from Granada celebrates every-day moments of connection with strangers, friends and ourselves. I know how easy it is not to be present in your own life, and I hope these sketches inspire you to seek out those moments that are worth savouring.
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