home

Home....

This simple and lovely word has been very present on my mind of late.  What does it mean, exactly? How does one find home?  How does one make home?

Paint is my usual answer.  Just paint the walls.  This color or that.  Warm or cool.  Paint will make this place home.  You see, that's the extrovert in me which believes if I can control what's on the outside, I will feel in control on the outside.  Unfortunately, I have a strong introverted side that doesn't fall much for this pretense and still looks inwardly for answers.

It seems I have a tendency to know in my being when I am not in a place to call home.  That shy, pulled back temperament sneaks in and effectively shuts off all intention of interacting with others.  I am guarded.  

I've done my fair share of whining about how this place is exactly that -- NOT home.  Work, community, churches, the narrowness of it all.  I've held the same position at the same institution for eight years and feel no more part of that community than I did the day I first stepped on campus.  Such irony for a campus known for its warmth and welcome.  It's there, to be sure.  Just not for me and I am not alone in this experience.

For much of my life there has been no place more like home than church, especially when I was making music with others.  I'm still working hard to find home in that space.

As I've not been able to find it in the traditional places, I've been yearning for home.  A place where my body softens.  Where I might laugh.  Where I might stop trying to figure things out for just a bit.  Where hugs are genuine and strong and the people inside know the heaviness of my heart before I even speak a word.  Where once inside, the heaviness falls away.  Just...like...that.  So simple.

My respite has been my mother's home where my guard comes crashing down and I stop doing.  This is a place where I can say aloud the thoughts on my mind and don't fear they will go unheard or belittled.  Where the loneliness of my darkest hours finds company and my spirit strengthens.  This I call home...

I want so very much for my own home to be this space for me, for my children.  I notice how there is tension when we greet others in our home and I wonder what I've done wrong.  Somehow our home seems a base, a place to clean and straighten before heading out into the world in our own separate ways. A place where doing gets in the way of being and there is much to be done.

A few weeks ago, a dear friend invited me and my family to a peace pole dedication. I watched as my son leaped through the front door to find his new friend and thought how he looked as though he were home, a place quite familiar and comfortable.  As I crossed her threshold, I felt it too.  H.O.M.E.

She told me later she was glad we came.  Holding back tears, I replied...it feels a little like being home.  And it did.  So many dear friends and friendships unchanged.  I recognized myself in her home -- my own warmth, my own love, my own softening.

I think of her words often.  She thanked her guests for coming that day and making her new house feel more and more like home.  She's written about the moments in their new house that add to the feeling of home.  I've witnessed her being that sings an example of making home for every person who comes through her door.

Following our visit, I had a strong urge to paint. I brought home paint samples galore with a patchwork of colors still fixed to my kitchen wall. We did paint the dining room.  But, Papa looked at me in the middle of my frenzy.  He gave me those eyes that said this isn't about paint.  And he was right.  It is all about finding home...