I always thought I was my truest self when at home, surrounded by the things I love and the rhythms I know. But I've learned lately that when you leave everything behind, you become yourself most plainly, and you see that home is not a place, not a gathering of things, but a way of being in relationship with the world around you.
And so for me home is gentleness, and quietness, and always seeking signs of love in life. Home is not so much a cup of tea as the moment in which it is taken - the inward breath, the warming. Home is who I am and what I drawn to in the world. Sunsets. West-sourced rain storms. Wildflowers. The smell of dust. Small spaces. Kindness.
Coming back to my house (not the house in these photographs), I realised how I had missed the serene cosiness of its little rooms, and the bunched-up tangle of flowers in its little garden, and the pale, familiar patches of sky. I had not much feeling for the furniture. I appreciated my homewares as convenient, pretty, but ultimately unimportant to my sense of selfhood.
Home too was finding the messages of friendship, love, and encouragement, in my email box, and recognising each writer's name like a star in the wider sky of my life. Thank you all. Every word meant so much.