My favorite guests are the ones who come into my home and have the power to improve spaces with their presence. These visitors are ones who know me well, know my habits and preferences, know what matters to me and why; they understand what makes me tick. And, incredibly, these kindred spirits love me still.
I’ve never not been an introverted homebody, and while that term is often used as a negative descriptor, I have no regret for loving how and where I live. For me, “home” can be both a physical space as well as a feeling, and I can recognize “home” instantly because I begin to breathe deeper, stand less rigidly, and move in the space as though I belong there. I’ve experienced this familiarity and acceptance walking into certain physical spaces as well as in the company of some people.
Sharing my physical home isn’t something I do freely, and I think a big part of the reason is that I don’t trust many to value it as much as I do. It’s not that it’s a space filled with expensive, “fancy” possessions, although when I look at some things I can calculate how many hours of my life I cashed in to afford them and so in that regard they are costly, I think. But I’m surrounded by items that have stories from my husband’s family and my own. A butter churn here, a rolling pin there—no one would hit the “Antiques Roadshow” jackpot with the generational hand-me-downs in each room, but to us they are priceless because they are irreplaceable parts of our personal histories.
I know that some people derive satisfaction from having lavish homes that are the envy and gold standard of their neighborhoods—to each their own. Mine has always needed to be a space where I can see my authentic self (not who Pottery Barn tells me I should be) and feel content with what I see. Granted, any home needs attention in the form of occasional repairs and even improvements, but regardless of its imperfections I love the feeling of turning into the driveway and knowing I’d rather be nowhere else.
The space between my ears is my first home, and I’ve lived here my whole life. What has been a revelation to me as I’ve passed the half-century mark is how poorly I’ve treated a space that deserves to be kept in good repair. In this space I’ve been the houseguest who props her muddy feet on the white sofa cushion or who carelessly breaks a family heirloom—the visitor everyone is relieved to see leave—and I’ve realized I need to be a better custodian of this irreplaceable dwelling of mine. Forget improvements, I’ve neglected even basic maintenance in a lot of areas.
In the same way I don’t trust that many people to enter my living space and treat it with care, I’ve come to see that the open-door policy I’ve had has allowed squatters to set up camp in my mind and create problems that aren’t as easy to solve as muddy footprints on a pillow. In the past several months my husband and I have been making some repairs to our home, and that has necessitated outsourcing some projects. One project in particular has brought an individual into our home who we soon realized is unreliable, untrustworthy, and disrespectful. The impact that has made on both the physical and mental space where I live is palpable, and I think a lot of people can relate to this: Southerners praise hospitality, and even when people show themselves to be undeserving of an extended welcome, we hesitate to evict them because we worry about being ungracious. The result, in this case, for me has been that I’ve felt uneasy in my own house and frustrated to have tacitly condoned unacceptable treatment.
In my lifetime I’ve lived in spaces where I should have felt at home, but instead felt continually on guard. Even within my own mind and body I’ve felt like other people’s opinions ranked higher than what I knew was true and healthy for me. Gavin deBecker’s book, The Gift of Fear, has been a favorite of mine for decades, and one point he makes that I’ve too often been guilty of is that people, especially women, will ignore their gut when it alerts them that something isn’t right because they do not want to be perceived as rude or hysterical. While deBecker’s focus is on how our intuition can warn us of physical dangers, I think those smaller dangers we encounter regularly can threaten our safety, too. When we allow insolent people to come into our homes (physical or mental) and treat them carelessly, we ignore what our intuition tells us is right.
In my case, I’ve replaced broken items left behind by houseguests, and I’ve spent years rebuilding the space between my ears after people’s words and actions have taken a battering ram to my self-regard. It’s a work in progress, and sometimes I still fail to safeguard my personal spaces from those who mean them harm, or even those whose benign neglect leave me with a mess to clean.
And the effect this has had on me is that I am even more welcoming of those who come in to all the spaces I live bearing a smile, an embrace, and an unconditional acceptance of what they find there. To those few, lovely folks, I say, “Please, make yourself at home.”
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