Last week, Brandon and I finished moving for the second time in our ten months of marriage. I haven't addressed this on my blog yet, but our landlord randomly decided to sell our condo and gave us four weeks to find a new place to live. This experience has really caused me to reflect on the sentimental nature of "home." Our condo was definitely not our dream home. The kitchen was beyond tiny. The living room lacked privacy, with gigantic windows facing a major tourist street. Our upstairs neighbors enjoyed having Lord of the Rings marathons in the middle of the night, during which their surround sound system would make our walls vibrate. And honestly, I could never place my finger on why our bathroom just plain grossed me out.
But for some reason, despite all of this, I found myself fighting off tears as the realtor came by to appraise the place. My mind flooded with memories of flying out here with Brandon's parents before we were married to find an apartment. After we chose the one, I remember adjusting our wedding registry to fill and decorate our future home. I'll never forget our first night spent there in August. The first thing we did was set up our bed, and we slept there, surrounded by piles of boxes and unassembled furniture. Even though I knew it wouldn't be "home" forever, it was our first place together. So quickly that little space became our safe place, our haven here in Maryland. Even though we enjoyed joking about how junky it was, those walls saw Brandon's first day of grad school and my first day at my first full-time job...
...our first Thanksgiving, and our first Christmas, just the two of us. It might not even be too cheesy to say that in many ways, we grew up there.
Our condo was never magazine-worthy or anything, so I never really revealed it on my blog, but I enjoyed decorating it all the same. So in memory of our first place, here's a glimpse:
As I move on, and try to turn our new apartment (which is currently painted odd Easter egg-esque colors) into a home, I find myself learning that I cannot allow myself to become attached to a specific apartment or house again, at least not until another decade, in which my life is more settled and secure. Being in your 20's is a strange season of life. The reality is that Brandon and I will probably move many more times; we'll find ourselves carting all our possessions into who knows how many places. I'm coming to realize that "home" is what you make it. If one's definition of "home" is a specific address, then the security it provides can be transient, fleeting. "Home" for me and Brandon, in our 20's, is the collection of memories and experiences we've formed together, a feeling of belonging that we create for ourselves and for each other. This is a big transition for me, as my parents have lived in the same house for as long as I can remember, always giving me a stable image of "home."
So here we are, moving from home number 1, where we spent our first year of marriage, to home number 2, where we'll spend our second. A new chapter.
What defines "home" to you?" Have you experienced similar feelings during periods of transition, or am I just overly-sentimental?