I have a hard time saying that word-- home. Why? Probably because in part my heart has a home in many places now, because it is connected by delicate fibers too fine to be seen, to others hearts across oceans and mountains and yellow-grass fields. People who have inspired me or touched me or been my friend. Somehow if I say the finality of that word, will it feel like I am severing those threads, threads that have woven into my heart and helped to make me who I am? It is because of people I have left behind, people who secretly in my heart I want to just come on over for dinner or a walk to June's seat or blab an hour away at the park like we used to, that I have the very hardest time saying that word-- the "h" word-- because it means I'm somehow letting go of those times and recognizing they won't come again.
And another reason, as a child I often caught myself imagining climbing the mountains where I was born so I could see what was on the other side. I think there will always be a part of me that wants to see what is on the other side. An insatiable wanderlust that makes me want to see, experience, and sometimes, --live-- on nearly every inch of this sweet planet.
Home also means letting go of the grass-is-greener syndrome-- recognizing that happiness isn't found in a place, it's found in one's heart and way of life. Nor is any dwelling perfect-- there will always be something left to be desired. Moving doesn't solve problems, it just swaps them out for different ones.
And lastly, because home means commitment. Commitment to something. It means we are going to ride this thing out together no matter what happens, thick, thin, hot cold, happy or sad. And that is a little bit frightening. In some ways, it is staring down the barrel of death. Of accepting what life will throw at me, and being okay with it. Growing old, experiencing loss, watching loved ones grow and move on. Will I ever be able to say that word without a little hidden tremor in my voice? I don't know.
But I do know one thing. I do love where I live. I love watching the seasons change on the mountains, then creep down the valleys, or the reverse. I love places I can escape to just minutes away where I can think and see God face-to-face. I love having so many thoughtful neighbors watching over me. And knowing every last one. I love one last thing. That I brought a baby home here. And others have come and gone and dropped their coats on the floor and we've said goodbye and hello as the seasons have changed with the whoosh of cold or warm air from the back door. We've buried pets and hidden teeth under pillows and decorated the Christmas tree and snuggled under warm blankets. We've laughed, shouted, helped each other, fought, and danced like weird people in the living room. If there is anyone worth putting down roots for, it is these little ones that I want to give stability to and let them make friends without worrying about whether they'll have to say goodbye to those friends. It is for memories and for family and for good enough.
Home
Sitting in the night study
Only the glow of the
Weekend's photos
Clicking across a
Computer screen,
Baby nursing into sleepy
Bliss
In his soft felt Dino jammies.
Black cloud
Dances with streaks of
White,
Inching along the
Hills.
Little oohs and ahhs
Trickle down the stairs
From little out-of-bedders
Pressed against an
Upstairs window.
Then it comes,
A sheet of water
Orange from the glow of the
Streetlamp standing sentinel
Outside.
Now we're snuggled up in
The dark,
Watching
the Glow
Hero wall,
Partially finished pine shelves,
And a train of little
Feet down to watch
The show.
The tapping of rain on the roof,
Gorgeous glut of plenty
Outside and in,
Protected,
Safe,
Happy,
Rain,
Lamplight,
Little feet,
Wonder,
Heroes,
Projects,
Home.
