The Woman’s Home, The Soul of the House

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Home is not merely made of four walls — it is a consciousness carried within the soul.
For a woman, home can be the warm embrace of peace and safety, or the quiet prison built by invisible chains.
A home is not constructed solely from stone and clay, but from memories, longings, and dreams.
It takes shape through a woman’s touch, and exists wherever her footsteps have wandered.

Throughout history, woman has been the maker of the home.
We say “the female bird builds the nest,” but not every nest is a sanctuary.
Sometimes, she is the flame that warms us at the hearth;
other times, the one trapped within the shadows cast by its walls.
For some, home is a garden where roots grow deep; for others, a crossroad left behind.

I am a traveler, too.
I left my home and took shelter beneath a different sky.
I migrated. I built a new home — but I came to realize that home never truly stays in one place.
It is something that seeps into the self, grows with memory, and is shaped by the hope of what’s to come.
Sometimes it fits into a suitcase.
Sometimes it lingers as a memory.
Sometimes it stretches out before us like an unfinished map.
Home is not a destination — it is something we carry.

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Woman and Home: Mythological Roots

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For the ancient peoples of Anatolia, home was not just a space — it was the vessel of the spirit.
The woman was the keeper of the fire, the setter of the table, the breath that gave the home life.
The Mother Goddess was the embodiment of nature and fertility. Wherever her presence touched, life blossomed.
The earth awakened with her.

In Greek mythology, Hestia was the goddess of the hearth and the home.
She took no part in divine battles — her only task was to keep the cosmic fire burning at the world’s center.
If the fire died, so did the home.
For fire was more than warmth — it was memory.
Each flame within the house carried the past and the possibility of what could be.

Like that fire, a home is not made of matter alone — it is a living being, with roots reaching toward the sky.
Its walls are woven from the memories the wind brings.
Its doors open not to rooms, but to time itself.
Each voice that echoes within is not lost — it settles into the walls, seeps into the soil, rises to the sky.

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In my art, home is not a structure — it is a living spirit.
The soul of the house merges with the soul of the woman.
She walks the same path through different ages:
She steps out as a young girl, pauses as a mother, looks back as an old woman.
The road is sometimes an escape, sometimes a return.

The stories whispered beneath the roof blend with the woman’s own voice.
With roots that reach skyward, the home becomes a bridge between past and future.
Some walk across it.
Some remain upon it.
Some carry it on their back.

In my lines, my colors, and my canvas, the home is reborn — as a world carried within every woman.
Because home is not a place.
It is the journey of a soul.