Finding Home Beyond Bricks and Mortar

The quiet, isn’t it? That’s what surprised me most about retirement. Not the absence of grading papers, though that was certainly a relief. Not even the sudden availability of daylight hours, though I did take full advantage of those for my garden. No, it was the quiet that settled in, the quiet that let me hear things differently. It’s a funny thing, the way our lives, and our minds, adapt to the rhythms we set for ourselves. For thirty-four years, the rhythm was predictable: the alarm, the commute, the classroom, the commute again. A hum, a steady thrum of obligation. Now, that hum is gone, and what’s left is… space. And in that space, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about houses, about homes, about what they truly *mean* to us.

I remember when Bernard and I bought our first house. It was a little place, really, a modest bungalow just outside of town. We were so proud. We’d saved, and scrimped, and finally, *finally*, we were homeowners. There was a sense of achievement, of course, but also a profound sense of… responsibility. Suddenly, the roof, the plumbing, the lawn – all of it was *ours*. And with that ownership came a level of anxiety I hadn’t fully anticipated. Every unexpected repair, every minor inconvenience, felt like a direct reflection of our competence, or lack thereof. It wasn't a joyous thing to maintain, not always.

And you know, the research these days— I've been looking into it— bears this out. They’ve done studies, particularly looking at younger people these days, those who are buying later and later, and they find that the psychological benefits of homeownership aren't quite what we thought they were. Not if the mortgage is stretching you too thin, not if you’re worried about property taxes, not if you’re constantly fretting about the value of your investment. You see, it isn't simply the *owning* that brings comfort; it’s the *security* that owning *can* bring. The ability to truly relax in a space, knowing you’re not going to be asked to move at the whim of a landlord.

I’ve watched friends, over the years, struggle with this. The constant pressure of maintaining a property, the fear of losing it – it can be incredibly draining. It can become a source of stress rather than a sanctuary. Phyllis, my friend, the one who helped me with the equinox gathering last fall, has always rented. And she’s quite content. She loves the freedom, the flexibility. She’s lived in several different cities, pursued different interests, without the weight of a mortgage holding her back. She laughs about how my anxiety about a fallen branch near the driveway would have her rolling her eyes.

It’s not just about financial security, either. It’s about connection. I remember the years I spent tending that garden. It wasn’t just about the plants themselves; it was about the interactions with the neighbors, the shared tips and advice, the feeling of being part of something larger than myself. A sense of belonging. And that feeling of belonging—of connection to place—can be fostered regardless of whether you own or rent. It's about creating a home, not just possessing a house. It's a distinction that's gotten blurry in our minds, hasn't it?

I’ve been revisiting some older astrological charts lately, really looking at them with fresh eyes. What I’m noticing is how much housing shapes our perceptions. People who feel rooted, who have a sense of place, even if it’s a rented apartment, tend to have a very different astrological profile than those who are constantly moving, constantly feeling uprooted. It's as if our sense of self becomes inextricably linked to our physical surroundings. And, perhaps unsurprisingly, the charts of those under severe financial pressure, regardless of housing status, often show a significant lack of inner stability.

My mother, God rest her soul, she always said, "A roof over your head is a blessing, dear. Don't worry about the rest." She lived through the Depression, you know. She understood the fundamental importance of shelter. And she didn’t put much stock in property values. She understood that a home isn't about bricks and mortar; it’s about the people you share it with, the memories you make within those walls. It's about the feeling of safety and warmth, of being truly yourself.

So, what's the lesson in all of this? Perhaps it's simply that we need to shift our focus. Stop chasing the elusive promise of some abstract ideal. Instead, focus on creating a space – whether it’s owned or rented – that nurtures your well-being, that fosters connection, that provides a sense of belonging. Focus on building a life filled with meaning, with purpose, with people you love. Because in the end, that’s what truly matters. That, and a well-tended garden, of course. It’s remarkable what a few rows of sunflowers can do for the spirit.