Not long ago, we traveled home again.
Home is now a relative word, being where we have most of our stuff. That’s his thought, he’s past the old home we had but still have. Me? It’s still home having lived there longer than anywhere else in my some odd years. It’s actually the longest he’s lived anywhere as well, and I mean town, not states or countries. That’s another “home” discussion that is long and complicated when asked: “Are you from Wisconsin? No? Well, California?” “from” meaning you were born and raised and then the whole of my story becomes a long story including yawns, more questions and answers and I can safely blame it on my parents. Gotta love it!
Home is where your heart still is for whatever reason. While he is a lot less sappy about things, when we visit, I get sad. I walk through the house talking to it because as anyone knows, who has read any number of books of certain type, there are spirits alive who can hear and walk with you. Duh! He designed the house-yes, I helped, but it was one of his bucket list items, so it will always be the big yellow house on the river owned by us. Oh, and the living room came close to such a splendid dimension, that of a “divine proportion.” He adjusted the size a bit so it would be just that. Cool eh? Kinda fun and who but a mathematician would play such a game? It was part of the three things that he wanted to do in his life. Mission accomplished on all three. And there is my heart.
Home is when you can still find your way even if there are more houses, road changes and shopping malls. It’s now a bit different traveling there, feeling slightly like an outsider, no longer really a part of it all. Plenty of friends to visit and stay with, and places to revisit because they are easier to find than the same brands in the “new” home. It’s a safety place, where I know I am very, very comfortable and still want to take care of it all-even with the garden overgrown, and the weeds running rampant and yes, thistles, and all those apple/pear trees you planted and harvested. Its views to the lake are still beautiful, the walk down the stairs to the lake can still provide exercise (puff puff) with it’s steep and uneven stair widths (mind you from the beginning-those builders seem to have been pretty ad hoc about it), but there’s the slowly eroding bank, high water and still people want us to cut down the trees for a wide, non obstructed view? Ha Ha-NO! Wait until winter when no leaves except for the White Pines exist and all is silvery and white. Magic!
Home is where you remember all the goods and bads that happened while living there. Oh crap! Now I start crying. But I love our house. It raised adults and kids, taught us and loved us. It’s never felt like just a building, always..our home. I plan to do a “smudge” when I remember to bring the sage with me next time, sometime. I think the spirits would appreciate the happy feelings I leave and know they are well kept after.
This new place feels like home when I get off the freeway and go up our tree lined street and park in the wee skinny drive. Home is here now, and home will always be places in my heart.