The Weather Inside the House

Some days, the weather inside the house does not match the sky.

The forecast may call for sun, but indoors, the light feels gray. The air is still, as if holding its breath. A kind of quiet fog moves through the rooms—not heavy, just present. A soft melancholy that gathers in corners like dust.

Other days, the house hums. No particular reason, no grand event. Just a small buoyancy. A window left open. A breeze in the curtains. A feeling that something has been gently put right.

I used to resist this shifting—used to think it meant I was inconsistent, or fragile, or ungrateful. I’d light candles with the secret hope they’d burn the sadness away. I’d open all the blinds as if sunlight were an eraser. I kept trying to tidy the feeling instead of tend to it.

But I’ve learned that homes, like hearts, have weather of their own.

And not all of it is meant to be fixed.

Now, I notice the patterns.
How certain corners hold the afternoon light longer than others.
How some rooms remember joy more easily, and others hold the echo of hard conversations.
How the hallway feels different when the laundry is folded, and how the kitchen always warms around 4:00 p.m.—no matter the season.

The weather comes in moods, in memories, in the quiet rise and fall of what it means to be alive and feeling in a lived-in space.

Some days, the mood is a slow drizzle.
Some days, it’s a quiet snowfall.
Some days, thunder rumbles behind closed cabinets, and I find myself crying over something that happened three years ago while folding socks.

And then there are the clear-sky days—the ones where the floor feels warm beneath my bare feet, where I hum without noticing, where the house holds me like a soft-spoken friend. On those days, I do more than I meant to and feel no urgency about any of it.

These moments pass more easily now that I don’t rush them out the door. I let the house be what it is. I let me be what I am.

When I feel heavy, I move slowly. I make soup. I sit by the window and let the light find me, even if I don't reach for it. I read the same paragraph three times and don’t scold myself for drifting away. I sit on the floor and let the child in me be a little sad.

When I feel light, I write letters. I wipe down the table. I water the plants. I remember to play music while I cook.

I no longer see mood as interruption. I see it as a kind of forecast. Something to notice, and dress for.

I don’t need my home to always feel sunny.

I just need it to be a place where weather is allowed.

Where stillness can be foggy or bright.
Where the heart can have its own seasons, and all are welcome.
Where joy doesn’t need an explanation, and sorrow doesn’t need a cure.

Let it rain. Let it shine. Let it be.

—L.B.

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