(Lewis Mumford, in Sketches from Life: The Autobiography of Lewis Mumford: The Early Years)
Our home is 32 years old, and we are the original owners. Its rooms and hallways have been the arena of much of our non-public life. While it has seen three partial renovations, one after a fire, there is still much that is vintage, that is, if you can say "vintage" about a relatively young house like ours. It is not the house of our dreams, if only because early in our marriage my wife and I may not have imagined such a house. We were neither dreaming nor looking, but some friends who lived in the neighborhood told us of the house, and we bought fast food and sat in the mud room of the empty shell and decided to buy.
We have a running list of complaints that waft through the air that blows from room to room, yet we have learned over time not to listen to their insistent pleas: the rooms are configured badly, the floors creak, and the pantry is tiny, the voices whisper. Everyone ends up in the kitchen, they say! And what, after all, is the “keeping room” keeping? Hardwoods bear scratches, carpet wears, and paint fades. The pipes object when the spigot is too abruptly closed. Imperfections abound. Entropy is evident.
Yet it is not, after all, just a house. It is a home. For better or worse, the life and memories it holds anticipate a better dwelling. “A house becomes a home, one of the ultimate expressions of place” says the inimitable Wilfred McClay, “not only by being congenial and familiar and comfortable, but by taking on a life of its own.” He calls it the “everyday magic of place-making." Place-making has to do with everything that is life inside a house: meal preparation, furniture choice and placement, the orientation of the house, the way the sun plays on the floor of a room, the perspective afforded by a view out of a study window, and the creaks and rumbles and whirs of the night, of the HVAC beast that wakes and slumbers, doing its work, or the house settling on its haunches, returning slowly to the earth. It has to do with the rutted pathways of life: up and down the stairs, hallways, and in and out of slamming doors.
There are, of course, the latest non-human occupants. Cats dust-mop their way across the hardwoods, flopping here and there, settling in a chair by a window to greet the birds. They do their own place-making, rubbing scents on doorposts and cabinet corners, burrowing into a cushioned chair, or sleeping on my pillow --- reminders that they have come this way. Paths to food bowls are particularly well-traveled, and the sloven mealtime habits of one are on display in the food spilt from her bowl.
And then there are the sounds of our voices: the low conversation of parents, the laughter of children, the yelling up and down the stairs. Even in the middle of the night, there are the contented breathings of deep sleep. Even in the absence of my now grown children, I still hear their voices echoing from their rooms, remnants left behind and etched in these walls. There are even the distinctive smells of our home, the result of dust, mildew, and paint mixed with the scents of thousands of dinners and cookies baking. Coming home from work, we open the door and even were we blind we would know we are home.
People who move every few years lose something, their place-making being tentative and temporary. Unless they are deliberate, they make no full surrender to a place. In a poem, Robert Frost said it well:
Something we were withholding made us weak Until we found out that it was ourselves We were withholding from the land of the living, And forthwith found salvation in surrender.
McClay says that "to withhold one's sense of belonging to a place is to leave oneself weakened and uprooted, trapped in a virtual reality, possessed by phantoms and abstractions that have lost their touch with referents, forced to struggle on without possessing the nourishment of the memories and concrete associations to be derived from the very soil on which one is standing." We are meant to dwell, in the full sense of the word, meaning to live and linger, to commit to the here and now.
Walking in our places is a way of taking possession, of place-making, of following the ancient command to "till and keep," to take "dominion." This pedestrian activity is imbued with spiritual import, our living into the Creation and not detached from it. Even our footfalls say, "I am here, this is mine, this is home."
So maybe it's not the house of your dreams, but it's better: it's the house of our realities. It's home. We cherish it, and forgive it. Like us, it is imperfect, even broken, but it bears in it the seeds of hope for a new place prepared for us, for the home to come. Perhaps that is what the keeping room is keeping alive for us: Home.