honey

She was our guest for Thanksgiving dinner. Her wise words filled the air as we ate turkey, mashed potatoes, creamed corn. She taught me how to make gravy using corn starch (no lumps). She said that her mother made creamed corn the same way I do. I said my grandmother taught me. Now I know my grandmother's mother started making it this way during the Depression. "Saltines stretch the amount" she said. She would know. She is my grandmother's sister. They called her Honey as a child. So I call her Aunt Honey.

She sounds like my grandmother when she laughs. When I let my eyes rest as I look at her, I see how they look alike. Their features are similar. She looks how my grandmother would have looked in a few more years.

I knew she lived nearby when I moved out here, but I hadn't seen her since I was little so I was hesitant to connect. A great-aunt seems like she will be "old." How wrong I was. She defines young at heart. She is incredible. At 86 she still lives alone. Gardens. Takes care of herself. Follows politics and the stock market. And she shares what she has learned. We connected right after my grandmother passed away. Cried together. Shared stories.

I have been given quite the gift in her friendship. A blessing in the midst of grief.

happy to be home

Happy to be home. Even though I am sick (again).

Lucky to have such a wonderful husband who takes care of me when I am sick (again).

Relieved that the trip home did not include a cancelled flight and a bus ride like the trip there did.

Thankful to be sleeping. A lot. I do not get enough sleep when I visit family (and I guess I need some emotional, physical rest after a trip to see them).

Grateful to have spent a day with wonderful friends and to have reconnected with someone from long ago.

Excited to have stopped by to see my pre-school teacher, Mrs. Lewis. She still teaches the three year olds, in the same room. Oh that voice. It was like no time had passed. I love that woman.

And blessed, truly blessed, to have had a really great little moment with my father. I have come to a place in my life where I have really been able to separate my expectations/dreams of what my relationship with him could be from the reality. And I am able to see that he does the best he can, even though I know I wish for a deeper relationship with him. Because I have let go of these expectations, I have been able to let go of the moments when he is not such a great father or when he says/does things I don't agree with or support. I know that his behavior is not about me; it is about him. And even more important, in the last two years, I have been able to be present in the moments when he truly is a father. Sunday night when I came back to his house to spend the night, I was starting to get really sick. He had made homemade soup and heated some up for me. I was sitting at his kitchen table, and he brought me a corn muffin to go with the soup. Then without saying anything he sliced it in half and buttered it for me. In that split second, I was a little girl, his little girl, who was sick, and he was doing what he could to help me feel better. I sat there in awe. I can't remember the last time I felt like he was my dad and not just a friend. My daddy. It was truly a blessing to remember.

Happy to be home.

oranges

Last night, I finished a beautiful book. Five Quarters of the Orange by Joanne Harris (she also wrote Chocolat).
And this theme of home, it has really made quite an entrance into my life this week...
A line from the last few pages of the book:

"It took a little time, you know," said Paul, "but I got over it. I let go. It's like swimming against the current. It exhausts you. After a while, whoever you are, you just have to let go, and the river brings you home."

Let it go. This is the real theme of my story. Let it go. Life isn't perfect. Let it go. My family is wacky. Let it go. My parents do the best they can and I love them for it. Let it go. Let it go.

Deep breath. Don't work so hard at the letting go though. It isn't about how hard you work. It is about the breath, the life. Take a breath. When you let go, let it be easier than you thought it would be. Let the river bring you home. Live.

home equals love

Today is our third anniversary. My husband and I have been married three years. Wow.
(and of course as life gets in the way on the day you want to celebrate. tonight I taught yoga and we have to be up at 4 tomorrow so I can get to the airport so we will both be in bed soon. we celebrated Monday.)

I know that even as I search for the meaning of this word home, I am certain of one thing.
Home is love. Home is the space that rests between my husband and me; it is what we created when we decided to come together in this life.

I gave him a collage on wood created by Swirly Girl. (I will take a picture when I return from my trip so you all can see it.) It is called Wandering - the words say:

i was lost
and
wandering
ever so slightly
aimlessly
But then I found you
and I was home.

[ever so slightly]

This is it (of course). Home equals love. Home IS where the heart is. I am finding my way and I am home.

Still, I seek understanding of the home of childhood. That family before this one I live in now (meaning the "now" family of my husband, millie the golden, and me).
But I take a breath and know that I am home.
And I am blessed.

(I hope to be able to post a few notes here and there while I am gone. But if I can't, I will be back early next week.)

gilmore girls. mom and daughter finally reconnect. daughter says i'm sorry. mom says kid, you have no idea.

home.

On a sidenote. I LOVE BLOGGING. I find myself reflecting so much more in the midst of the chaos of life. Thinking "I could blog about that or that..." So good.

a myth?

(this was really Monday's post but the site was down when I was ready to post)

Home. A place where you feel safe. Respected. Loved (no matter what). You don't need make-up. Imperfections are embraced. There is no judgment (and when there is, you talk about it as much as you can). The truth is spoken, even when it is hard. You are invited to be your best self. Forgiven for the moments when you are not. No score is kept. There may be laughter, tears, joy, and grief. And someone to hold your hand through all of them.
Home is that deep satisfied sigh a dog makes as it rests its head on your knee.
Home should be more simple and less drama.
Home is doing the best you can and being loved for it.

I don't think the words above are the myth of home. I think they are the truth of home. The home we hope for, strive for, try to create.

I have often wished for a place that felt like home and included my parents. Read: the image of "home for the holidays." This has become more apparent to me because of the distance that now separates us. We used to only be an hour away from each other. The distance now gives me the opportunity to "go home" but it doesn't feel like that is what I will be doing Thursday.

So what is that place? This place I will be going for the weekend. My hometown? The place where my parents live? An opportunity to let go of the desire for the "home for the holidays" myth? Is home a state of being or a place? Something different for each of us? A myth? A truth?

I give myself permission to uncover my own truth. No judgment. And guilt, you are not invited.

home

On Thursday I am heading back to Indiana for a quick visit. See each of my parents, go to a Notre Dame football game with my dad, spend one or two days working/training with the woman who hires me to edit.
As I look to this weekend, I am thinking about the idea of home. Am I going home?
What is home to me?
I think I want to spend some time thinking about this over the next few days - maybe make it a theme for the week here on my blog.
I spend a lot of time stuffing my thoughts/feelings about this subject. Maybe it is time to take a peak. Stay tuned.

You can never go home again, but the truth is you can never leave home, so it's all right.
Maya Angelou

feeling "buggy"

I am fighting off some kind of bug this week...so I will leave you with the wise words of a great woman and go back to bed.

Inside myself is a place where I live all alone, and that's where I renew my springs that never dry up.
Pearl Buck