Learning to Love My Home

I grew up in a narrow house on a small lot on a wide street in Venice, California. For decades, Venice has been home to artists, outcasts, nonconformists, drifters, and misfits. After all these years, there is still a spirit of non-conformity and the unconventional in our little portion of the city of Los Angeles. 

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My parents moved here because it was one of the few places they could afford to live. Being architects, they fit right in. I don’t think they ever planned to raise a child in this little house, but they did. 

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From the start, the house has been a work in progress. The “never quite done” condition of my home was sometimes frustrating and occasionally downright embarrassing. I didn’t have a door in my room until I was fourteen. We still don’t have curtains. We don’t have a doorbell. There are switches in my house that don’t control anything. 

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There is always a project in the works and with each burst of creative energy, something new or unexpected and sometimes wonderful takes place. When my “architects” decided that the kitchen was on the wrong floor, our world was flipped. Our new downstairs kitchen connected us to our sidewalk, our small garden, and the rest of our neighborhood. Glass doors let us wave and interact with our neighbors like we never had before, allowing us to participate just enough in the craziness that comes to Venice every day. 

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My friends think that our house is cool because of where it is instead of what it actually is. It is a few steps away from Abbot Kinney’s shops and restaurants, a five-minute walk to Muscle Beach, and slightly south are the remnants of the original Venice canals. However, this is merely the “where” of our house. The “what” of our house is that it is an ongoing project. It’s full of objects and books and tchotchkes that hold memories and reflect the range of interests and distractions that form the basis of our family. To a lot of kids, their home is a symbol of stability and permanence. Mine is the complete opposite. It is an adventure. It is a setting for surprises, frustrations, and improvements. 

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My teeny room has become my safe haven. Even though the ever-changing nature of our house I’ve come to realize is more exciting than embarrassing, I still get overwhelmed. I can escape, go into my pocket of the house, close my newly installed door, and breathe. My favorite thing to do is light a candle and look out my window which looks down the narrow path that separates our house from our neighbors. 85% of the floor space is occupied by my full-sized bed, but it is cozy and perfect to me. 

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However, most of my time is spent in my kitchen– where my family congregates. My parents both love to cook, so I frequently sit at the counter and watch them make new recipes and offer any amateur help I can give. Our Amazon Alexa plays “Smooth Jazz” to accompany the cooking, but eventually the television turns onto CNN or Family Feud (no in between). 

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I look back on the insecurity I felt about disfunctionality of my house and realize how stupid and shallow it all was. Sure, I am entitled to my own feelings, but I am overwhelmingly lucky to have a place where I feel safe and a home full of love. 

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For years I wanted the perfect house, with everything coordinated like a Restoration Hardware catalog. Now I realize that for me, this house is perfect. I am also certain that my house has played a huge role in my upbringing. My house has taught me that it is okay to be a work in progress, that you don’t have to follow every step planned, and to be open to the views of other people, because you just might learn something and it could change your life.