Home

I was talking to my Aunt Margaret when it hit me: This place is not my home.

My "home" was on Bijou Lake -- about 10 miles outside of a tiny town in Minnesota. I grew up on that lake. I knew every step, every piece of wood, every rock that made up our fireplace. That place was my home. This place -- this place where my parents stay -- is not my home. And no matter how "cozy" it was -- no matter what pictures of me hung on the wall (and by the way there are none), no matter how many stories I could retell of how I stumbled on the steps or how I once dangled from the loft, dropping finally onto the couch below...no matter how many memories I could sing into the spaces and linens... this will never be my home.

I suppose it all sounds obviously obvious, but it just hit me.

What thought came after was a bit scarier: I want a home. I want a home that belongs to us. I want memories and paintings and choices of bedspreads and sheets and towels that we've made together. I want to have a place I can never be asked to move from. And as much as I would love for anyone to visit us to feel welcomed, I want them to also feel that it is obviously not their home so they can leave after they get done visiting.

I don't want a house. I don't want an apartment. I don't want a cabin or a condo or a duplex.

I want a home.

I can't wait to leave here so I can start my blueprint.