My house. My home.

The place where I live.  The building in which I reside.  It is not a mansion nor a showplace.  It does not boast a turret, though I would LOVE a turret.  It is not small.  It is not intimidating.  I have never known anyone to feel put off by entering my home because of it's grandness.  Sometimes, perhaps for it's chaos. 
And, chaotic it often is.  Animals and kids roam freely around.  Adults sit around and chatter.  Or take naps as the urge hits them.  It is a plcae where much living goes on. 
Often unkempt and untidy.  Without much organization.  The glasses get broken regularly.  There are dozens of plates in the cupboard and flatware to serve a small army.....because this house sometimes does. 
My house.  My home.  It might not be many things, but it is a place of refuge.  A place to be yourself.  A place to enjoy and eat your fill.  It is a place to laugh or cry depending on what you need....sometimes both occur within minutes.  This is a real place.  No need to put on your fanciest attire or to use the proper fork.  You'll be lucky if you get matching silverware. 
But, this place is a place I'd fight for.  I would draw a line in the sand if anyone tried to make it less than what it is.  Because, for all of it's idiosyncrasies, this house is a reflection of me.  It is not many things, but it is willing.  Willing to shelter your heart.  To offer you friendship.  To relax when the world is too busy.  To work hard to help you make it through.  This house is  a portrait of who I am.  Still under construction.  Needing work all of the time.  Too much roaming around inside and out.  But still, something there that draws you in.  Causes you to pause.  And wonder.  Maybe there's more here than meets the eye. 
My house.  My home.
blessings,
rhonda