For the last two weeks of May, I lived out of a suitcase and in friends' and family's guest rooms, along with a night or two at an inn. I witnessed grandparents taking their dog-child to the vet after a boo-boo gone wrong, almost melt downs due to the pushing back of bedtime for the sake of a family dinner, and confused teenagers who had to share their bathroom with a stranger. I've woken to footsteps of mom's preparing breakfasts and backpacks before school, automatic coffee grinders that I forgot existed, and garage doors opening for an early commute. My circadian rhythm was not quite able to match the pace of my gracious hosts' schedules, but I efforted to keep up and cherish the flow of participation. YES I was ready for my morning routine and meditation spot, a slower stream of activity… sleep AND I was in heaven getting to observe, hang, exist in the thralls of my loved ones.
I took in all of the surfaces layered with photos, books, knick-knacks, flowers and their vases, scented candles, mugs, crayons, reading glasses, small paintings (some by me), potted herbs, phone chargers, and mail. Every bookshelf, cabinet, closet, cocktail table, drawer and garage tells a tale. Each house had a different story, but a similar theme, for each home was an anchor to all the lives being lived. I got to soak in the living that was being done, the bustling that never seemed to wane, and the conversations that could spark just by being there. And when you are homeless for a half a month, the generous welcoming I received was a heartwarming tribute to the endurance of so many friendships and their passage of time; be it 10, 20, 30 or 40 years strong. The ability to feel at home in these busy nests is the most wonder-filled way to remember the wonderful people who help create my world.
This idea of being away from home as one goes home is a constant inner dialogue. The leaving and the left. The traveling and the returning. The deep roots that sink into the earth and the moving branches that move with the currents of the wind, along with the sometimes falling leaves. This last trip has had me revisiting so many of my homes- Greenwich, Wallingford, Portland, Rowayton- that stirred the many memories and choices I've made over the course of my life. Is this a mid-life thing where we retrace our steps to find out where we are, and maybe where we are going? This auspicious spot where we see the future in our parents, and our friends’ parents, as well as the past in our children, and our friends’ children. The second longest line on a ruler marking the half inch- you’re not quite there, but you're in the middle of it all. A summit that you almost dread peaking, because downhill has its own set of implications, yet the view is so breathtaking.
As I archive moments of this trip (the joy! celebrations! reunions... oh-my!) and my bed-hopping feats, I feel pieces of myself soothing their fatigue in the knowing that all is well. While the wind may drive me more than the rooting, there are friends and family who have better instilled themselves into the soil. If I chose to listen to the compare and despair track of “must be nice” and “if only” dialogues, I could find myself doubting in the act of reminiscing. However, in re-membering the people, pieces, and places of my past, be it in a visit or a check-in phone call, there will always be a place to call home within these lasting connections. A point of place that allows me to feel whole in the sum of my many parts. And as I trail blaze with the love of my life beside me, and our children trusting us enough to know that their home is always within and around them, I can settle into the wind currents and let go of reaching for the ground. The ground will catch me, and welcome me, whenever and wherever I land, but the breeze will forever drive me forward... and into the world.
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