I have been thinking alot lately about what it means to be content. Is it different from being happy? Is one automatically happy if one is content?
I like to bitch about having to live with my 91 year old grandmother. How it drives me crazy when she puts my rugby shorts in the dryer on high, how it rankles me every time I have to let her know where I am going, how I no longer get to watch tv in the evening because she stays glued to Fox News until it is time for bed. I create these laundry lists of grievances in my head, but then I feel bad for thinking such mean, petty thoughts. I mean hey, how awesome is is to live rent free and have someone to take your dog out for potty breaks during the middle of the day? She is a sweet lady, and I love her, but the house certainly doesn't feel like home, which is what upsets me the most.
The intangible feeling of home is elusive, and at times I don't think I'll ever experience it. I have never felt completely at ease in any of the places I have lived, and have wasted my daydreams building the fluffiest of castles in the air, places where I feel peaceful and happy. I care fiercely about family and friends, but no one has ever made me want to say this is where I belong.
