The gratitude of having a home

It’s still a nice feeling to stand at your own front door, to insert the fitting key and enter your own heaven. A fragrance that belongs only to our family is spreading in the interior, a coziness that is indescribable. The four walls tell stories; they bear witness by many small details of our lives: a smiling Buddha here, a Chinese tea cup there, a batik mask on the wall, a Shiva image above the bed.

Last night, at around 6 p.m., I sat down on our comfortable mattress and looked into the blue eyes of my husband. He was tired from work, and had been resting on the bed for a while. “How are you?” he wants to know. I was so full of happiness and gratitude that a simple smile was a good enough answer.

How could I not be well? We are healthy (although, yesterday, I was plagued by a cold), our boys who go to a great school, are at the moment on spring break and can afford to simply do nothing. Desmond was sitting in his own room, which he set up the way it suits him and was drawing. Lenny crouched on the warm floor of his own realm, too happy to (pretend-)travel with his toys to an exciting world of adventure. I myself worked in the morning, the afternoon I was cleaning the apartment of friends and I came home satisfied.

We were discussing what we could cook for dinner – the fridge was filled with fine things – while we looked out the open window. The snow-capped mountains around us were colored red by the setting sun and displayed a deep satisfaction.

We would eat something delicious, would then play a board game together, or perhaps carry on with the jigsaw puzzle that was waiting for us on the big table. We would talk a lot, read a book, and laugh a little. We had the time, energy and the freedom to decide how we wanted to spend the evening. Isn’t this an incredible gift?