I have a few friends who keep their doors open, whose houses I walk into without knocking or even feeling a need to announce my presence.
I once let myself into a friend’s house while she was in the shower and she just said, “Hey” when she got out, not at all surprised to see me with my feet up on the couch, already searching through their DVR. Last week, a friend told me she loves that it feels normal when I’m at her house.
I love that I feel normal at her house.
I have lived a lot of places, and in some ways I still do.
I live in the little apartment on the south side of town with the cat and the vegetables and the mostly South African roommate.
But I also live many days and more than a few nights in the little house full of girls that’s about a mile from everything, where we walk and cry and cook and eat a lot of dessert.
And I live in the big house down in Georgia where my parents are learning to re-set their roots and begin again.
I live in a cabin named C. Robin on the other side of the man made lake 50 miles from nowhere in a girls’ camp in upstate New York.
I live most Mondays and Wednesdays and at least one other dinner a week at the big table in the house full of children that welcomes me into their mess and their beauty.
Really, I live wherever I find an open door.
And I have so many people who leave the door open for me.
This post is part of my 31 days of Love Letters series. Click here to see the rest of the posts in the series.