Love Your Home Journal: Jamy Daily of FortuitousFox

Home. It’s a feeling. A captured memory. A cluster of moments. I am befuddled. My heart yearns to understand the true meaning of this word. Over the years, I’ve existed in different places. Each structure defined largely by memories. I never had the opportunity to firmly plant my feet in one place. To me, home is where all of my most beautiful moments have been conceived. I am a collector of said moments. Each captured. Each placed in my back pocket as I’ve traveled from one dwelling to the next. Each encapsulated in time.

My home is my canvas.

At first, it resembled a dreary winter morning back home. For I longed to be back in the clutches of the city I love. The magic of a first snowfall. Gawking. Jaws agape, as my hands pressed firmly upon the windows that lined the Macy’s on Michigan Avenue. The way this beautiful season brings forth the innocence that lives on in my soul. The swaying of the El as it lulled me into an early slumber. Searching for the perfect tree whilst sipping hot apple cider. Building snow forts under the stars. Laughing endlessly as we hurled snowballs at one another in Lincoln Park. Decaying urban structures.

By the springtime it was dappled with the colors of new blooms and sunrises that glistened through the trees. I captured the colors of the sunset and held them close to my heart. I reveled in awe at the spiderweb that clung delicately from an old oak outback. The hues of foggy morning captured through bulbous dewdrops. The earthy smell of geraniums. A trip out west. Magical moments under the stars. This tattoo, and its representation of a beautiful life taken too soon. The flittering of lightning bugs against the dusky sky as we darted grasp them between our fingers.

By summer, my canvas was speckled with the colors Matisse used in his paintings. We loved watching the sun as its rays warmed our faces (memory circa. 2015). Time spent with friends in the mountains. Laughter in the backseat of a car. A cross county road trip. Gazing up at the clouds, pondering what shape they’ll morph into next. Chasing the sunset. Singing songs about the soft grass as we laid intertwined. Trips to the Apple River. Attempting to catch those illusive crayfish who hid amongst the rocks on the riverbank. A mile walk in the mud with one lost shoe. The magical hum of the crickets evening song. That one time the Mets beat the Cubs at Wrigley. My toes hanging out the window as they kept beat to a song that nestles at the root of who I am. Gazing up at the night sky in total awe of its mystery. It’s endless expanse.
By fall, my canvas was flecked with the colors of the autumn leaves. The wind whisking them off of the trees and into a chaotic, swirling fury. Crisp air. Driving with the windows down, feeling the resistance of the wind as it pushed through my fingers. Reminiscing in the touch of the sun shower drops as they delicately pelted my skin. Adventuring with my Fortuitous Fox. Jumping into that quintessential pile of leaves. Watching the Cubs clinch the World Series. Dancing in the rain. Chasing the snow with my loves. The collapsing light of dusk.

I’ve found my home in each and every memory. They’re what breathe passion into my life. They’re my inspiration. My happiness. I hold them close. I guard them. I rely on them. They inspire me to create beautiful moments. Home is encompassed in each and every moment. Every memory. Each beautiful mark on this life. It is where we’ve had our firsts. It’s a place where we’ve overcome devastation. It’s where we’ve grown. Where we’ve changed. Where we’ve thrived. As the moon fades from view and the sun begins to rise, I am reminded that tomorrow is never promised.

My inspiration. It is deeply rooted in these moments. They’re intertwined. Fragments of time. Memories that have made me feel alive. Moments that have broken my heart. Without memories, our homes would be merely but a hollowed shell, for home lives in our memories. Home is truly everywhere our hearts long to be.