"The Poetics of Space" by Gaston Bachelard reminds us that it's "the house that remolds the man". 

We are who we are. But then we get carved and polished, remodeled and reworked by the environments and the people we spend our time with. The art we live with gives off the kinetic energy of its maker. We are kissed and brushed and spoken to by the whispers and punches of the creativity that we live around. The banister has messages of old growth trees. The wisdom is coming from inside the house. 

How do we know what sturdy is in the body, if we didn’t stand on it first in the house? We resonate with the soul of a home, with its books and pages and plants, making it easier to sense our own abode. We feel places. Old windows. New life. We sit and slow down and read what's on the shelves so that we remember to dust off what's written in the libraries of our lives, too. I bow at all genuine houses, but it's the old ones that always make me wanna stop. To be reverent. And silent. So we can read between the lines. In the quiet, we find the best kept secrets. Whispering. 

"I'm available. Come home."