The sanctuary? Yep, usually.
Camp? Pretty much always.
A 1923 bungalow with peeling front porch steps? All the time, without fail, hands down, most sacred space I know.
I was in a relationship once--a long, long time ago--that wasn't so great. There were times when I didn't feel like I had a place of my own, a place to be still, a place to just breathe. There was a season in my life when I longed for something other than shifting sand, tension filled instability, and the sensation of waiting for the ground to crumble beneath me.
During dinner with a friend tonight, she shared that she's longing for something stable, something that is hers, something she can stand on without fearing it will dissolve right there under her feet.
It has been a long time since that feeling of lost-ness, of chaotic displacement, rose within me. But this evening as I heard her speak, I remembered it. My heart expanded within my chest as I listened; I could feel the pressure of it, because I knew-with all of my being, deep in my bones-I knew this feeling she was describing. I was all too familiar with her craving for something solid, her desire for stability, her need for dependable, definitely-hers, can't-take-it-away-if-you-tried, sacred, space.
I didn't expect my-something-solid, my sacred space, to be a humble home with 40 year old linoleum in the kitchen, an oddly placed toilet on a raised platform in the middle of the basement (really, y'all, it's there--and it works), and a funny smell (akin to the sewer) that rises from its depths from time to time.
But it is.
It's all that and it's a home base, the soil for my roots, the soft place for my fall, the holder of our someday nursery, the keeper of our recent yesterdays and the site of at least our soon-to-be tomorrows.
It's home. It's not going anywhere. It's mine. It's ours. It's sacred.
I am so very thankful.