Whether it's the demands of the holidays, caregiving for family members, business responsibilities, or any of the other myriad things we must do (or distract ourselves with), there is no end to the ways in which we can be pulled off center and our energy depleted.

I've been thinking a lot lately about the word, 'domain,' and what it means personally. A year ago, we moved into my father-in-law's house after he lost his second wife. He's eighty-six, losing his sight, and this was the best decision for everyone. However, my living situation has underscored my relationship to HOUSES, physically and metaphorically. I can sympathise a bit with how it must have been to be the bride of a younger son and move into the family manor. You are an outsider, and if you move that portrait that's hung there for centuries, all hell breaks loose.

Like many women, I love 'house porn,' those real estate ads of beautiful houses, and I can waste a good amount of time flipping through slideshows like the little matchstick girl. But doing that doesn't bring me any closer to owning a home. And even if I did own a home, I would probably still peruse house porn looking for my 'dream house.'

Speaking of dreams, houses crop up in mine almost nightly. Often they represent my body. Whenever I dream of intruders breaking into the house, I am getting sick. I no longer question it. I just get up and take vitamin C.

With the upcoming Long Nights Moon, I am doing some deep-seated psychological and spiritual work. To borrow Florence Welch's words from her song, Shake It Out, I am 'Tired of dragging this horse around." 

I know there's pressure as writers to maintain a public facade of having one's act together at all times. Screw that. I avow that most writers are neurotics and our work is the better for it, as long as we maintain the upper hand. And when things start to get a little too nuts? Well, it's like in the movie adaptation of Practical Magic, when the lady says, "We're cleaning house!" as she and the other women sweep the ashes of the nasty Jimmy Angelov's spirit out the door.

I was inspired to take serious stock of my shit after doing a reading for a friend that turned out to be as much for me as it was for her. It resonated with the feeling I got after recently having read Enchanted Glass by the late Diana Wynne Jones. How can a simple kids' book affect me deeply, you say? Well, because I live a magical life. And for those of you who just made a noise out your nose, hey, it's how I was made. And because I live a magical life, when I read about Jones' concept of a magical 'Field-of-Care' (area of land over which a mage is responsible) even in a work of fiction, I knew exactly what was being talked about. And I know I haven't been properly tending to mine.

So how do you own your space if you're not a homeowner? If you rent an apartment? If you live in someone else's house? 

By having dominion over your own domain. And by that I mean truly inhabiting ourselves. How many people do you know who aren't really home? A piece of paper declaring a mortgage agreement with a bank will never give me the kind of validation I need. From myself. To do that, I will be owning up to, identifying, and burying the fears that keep me from accomplishing my desires. I am addicted to the notion that success should be difficult, and I make it so. Well, stay tuned, because I'm about to kick some serious personal-demon booty. Hey, why wait for the New Year?

Here's a Nic Cage treat for anyone who is in danger of a holiday-induced losing of their shit. I usually can't last more than thirty seconds before collapsing in giggles. 

So, do you enjoy house porn?