When we remember our
childhood, we remember, not events, or whole days, but fleeting, tiny
moments that flicker through our senses like moments from our

We remember the scent
of our mother leaning over us as she kissed us. We remember the
leather of our parent’s sofa sticking to our bare legs and the
scratchy blanket we rubbed between our fingers as we fell asleep. We
remember the heady smells of the roast dinner emanating from our
Nanas kitchen and the pattern on the wall paper of our childhood
bedroom. We remember all of this and somewhere deep inside us, these
memories form the markers of what it means to be home…

These memories, these
little moments from our dreams become sacred because they are what we
know. They are the teeny ordinary things we had the time to notice
as children: a time when our senses are most alive, eager for the
detail inherent in everything that surround us, a time when it was
all the ordinary things that mattered. The sacred ordinary…

I tell you all this
because I want you to ask yourself if there is a house from your
childhood that you go back to, and tonight I want you to remember
what it was at that house that made it feel like home…

Was it the scent of
lavender brushing against your legs as you walked up the path? The
profusion of snuggly blankets on your Mothers couch? A colour, or
fragrance that instantly takes you back?

Try to remember one
thing: a scent, or a texture (nubbly chenille bedspread anyone?) that
makes you smile and make a note to incorporate it in your home one
way or another, so that even for the tiniest of moments, there is a
place in your house that makes you feel truly, authentically home…