Home is where your Heart is

Lately, I've been longing for (/obsessing over) having my own home. I lived in the same farm house until I was 21, bought my first home at 23 (with the help of my parents of course) and then my second, with my brother (and again, the help of our parents) two years after that. They have always wanted stability and security for us, and undoubtably through them, I've come to associate "owning a home" as the same thing as having a home.

On moving to Cape Town two and a half years ago (time flies when you are having fun!) I felt more at home in this city (surrounded by friends like family to me) than anywhere else I'd lived. Despite firstly, the housemate from hell and now the letting agent from hell, this city in undoubtably home. What, for the past couple of weeks, has felt missing is the brinks and mortar to call my own...and the ability to put nails into them without the fear, trepidation and literal nightmares, of how I'll fix it when moving day comes.

I didn't at any stage stop to think of how others may view my current obsession. Perhaps insane to some that I'd find something material as such a source of comfort. Perhaps pressure at what exactly it entails (they don't come free after all) or perhaps the uncertainty of not wanting to put the cart before the house...I mean horse!

My man's aunt recently passed away and this got me thinking...is home not where the heart is (even in my small, but very comfortable, rented flat...with no outside area!?) Is having a place to call home more important than having a person to create a home with?

Every now and then a little perspective is good for the soul...and the sanity. The rest, as they say, will come.