Home is a warm harbor, for all the sailing boats. Home is an umbrella, giving comfort and support when there is rain or snow. Home is also an eternal ballad, the most beautiful note imprinted in my heart. Most people have a house or a shelter to live in, that could cover them from devastating snow in the winter or blocking the burning sunshine in the summer. It is remarkable, however, that not many people own a home.

George A. Moore has once said “A man travels the world over in search of what he needs and returns home to find it.” I have traveled to many places, and on several occasions stayed at a friend’s house for a month or two. During a visit to a close friend of mine in the countryside, I had gotten the chance to stay in the most historical house in the region. It was a fine house with wooden furniture. At night, dreams were as luscious as roses, and in the daytime, I enjoyed myself by exercising and meeting new people. But the sea of troubles and wounds has nowhere to be placed. My eyes, ears, and nose were at the optimum state filled with the beauty and pleasure of the sudden fresh air, yet my heart was distant.

After two weeks, I was very homesick. I do not know whether it was that I was not used to the countryside or I was not used to the people living there, but I was more than ready to go back to my house which I considered as my home. As a result, I left for my comfortable home on a foggy morning at the end of the third week.

My house was carefully decorated, so the minute I walked in, I could taste the feeling of home and smell the sweet and sour memories of the past. Instantly, my heart was settled with excitement like a clock striking noon and people gathering around the church to hear the news or making small talk. Everything is in its usual taste — the moist air and the nectar water, so amiable and familiar, embracing me in every direction.

When I first moved into the house in the winter, it was cold as though the wind from west Siberia had just emerged and diffused in the empty spaces with stiff pieces of furniture laying around. I closed all the windows and shut the door from the balcony, but the icy feeling was already mixed in the air. Paintings were bought and hung onto the walls, and my piano was moved in together with my bookshelf and books. Things were arranged neatly and beautifully, using up the space efficiently. The magnificent notes of the piano, the joy with family, laughter with friends echoed in the house.

Gradually, colors started to change. The daffodil and chrysanthemum blossomed on the windowsill; the smell of mint was as fresh as ever; the dandelions fluffed, softly floating to every corner of the world. It was as though summer had already come, bringing the golden happiness.

Memories gathered, I remembered building a wooden bridge with my partner and collecting leaves to make bookmarks. These made the delightfulness sprinkle upon me, which is the key element of creating a home. Thus, the house turned into a home.

Home is a place that I could release all my burdens and the tiring rules of human society. Every piece of work shows the marks of ages and the efforts of time. To turn a house into a home may be the greatest art of all time.