I'm not sure if this ties in here, but it seems somewhat related. As some of you know, hubby and I have been trekking back and forth to Montreal to help renovate his daughter's basement. While there, using her computer to get to this site, I found it almost impossible to think clearly enough to write. I don't know if it was the mess, clutter, or aching muscles from all the hard work, but the whole time I was on her computer, I was too brainfogged to respond well. As soon as I got home, the brainfog cleared, and the thoughts began flowing freely again.

I love my home. My entire house is sanctuary. Home is where I'm most loved, where I'm most me, where I'm most contented, and where I'm most safe. We've made it that way, deliberately.

Everything that's hanging on our walls is either a picture of family, a picture painted by family (including the bathroom's framed pictures painted by our 4-yr-old granddaughter), or things given to us as gifts by family/close friends. Every knickknack on the shelves is a gift that has been give to us by children, family and friends. Some of them are downright ugly, but they radiate the love and care of the beloved persons who took the time to pick them out and give them to us as gifts over the years. Thus we are totally surrounded by family and love. And that for me is what makes this tiny house our sanctuary and home.