Journal exercise: I Found My Way Home

I have been ruminating on the concept of home.

The ache for home lives in all of us. The safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned.

― Maya Angelou, All God’s Children Need Traveling Shoes

img_9581

Journal exercise:

If you were to write an autobiography entitled I Found My Way Home, what does home mean?

Just write.  Without stopping for 10-15 minutes… whatever comes to mind.  Of course, there is no right or wrong; home is something different for all of us.

My journal entry (unedited):

My first go to when I think of home is always torpet- peering into the window of my childhood summerhouse.

screen-shot-2016-11-02-at-11-42-36-am

Photo by Julian Bowers. Ulriksdal, Mässvik, Sweden, July 2009.

Is home in there?  Or in here?  Is it the family all together?  Is it my heart?  My art?  My mother’s lap?  My lap?  The corner of the cafeteria with my dad?

img_2762

I have a friend who looks at the person in front of them deeply… the person inevitably or, more accurately, immediately falls in love.  Is that home?

Is it stuff?   I love my stuff.  Like Dad’s copies of De Ovanliga.

screen-shot-2016-11-02-at-1-05-05-pm

My mom’s curlers.  My daughter’s first flannel blanket.  My son’s stuffed unicorn.  It’s a Christmas tree and my parrot’s bell.

img_2227

It’s silence and oh so, deliciously noisy.

It is lost and found, and both.

It’s a launching pad and a landing pad.

It’s the journey and the entire story.

It’s a shared obsession.

It’s a new book and an old fave.

It’s Dad’s vest.  Mom’s recipes.  The sound of children.

img_2249

It’s the mason jar on my window sill.

14907673_10211253090185214_7046628109060151860_n

The sound of keys.

It’s olfactory.  Sensory.  Visual.  Auditory.  Philosophical.

It is memory.  What if we lose them?

It is building, connection, a cave and a woven rug.

Is there a temperature?

It’s within the pages of Nabokov and Karinthy.  In the scratchings of these pages.

Is it attainable?  Unattainable?  Is it safe?  Painful?

It is all these things of course or none of them, but again, I always go to torpet.

screen-shot-2016-11-02-at-12-58-40-pm

screen-shot-2016-11-02-at-12-58-23-pm

Perhaps home is not a place but simply an irrevocable condition.
― James Baldwin, Giovanni’s Room

 

Home is a place in the mind. When it is empty, it frets… #sayinggoodbye

Home is a place in the mind. When it is empty, it frets. It is fretful with memory, faces and places and times gone by. Beloved images rise up in disobedience and make a mirror for emptiness. MAEVE BRENNAN, The Visitor

With gratitude, exhaustion, wonder, and excitement, we said goodbye to our North Vancouver home last Friday. Such incredible memories. Such incredible life it held: coming of age, divorce, stroke, cancer, death, birth, expanding of wings, clipping of wings, tears, laughter, food, family, pets, mayhem, smorgåsbords, great TV, tons of creation, so much created, written, researched, so much discussion, communication, love. GROWTH.

And now it stands empty. Now we no longer have keys. Now it belongs to someone else. Wow.

20140317-190535.jpg

20140317-190608.jpg

20140317-190640.jpg

20140317-190719.jpg

20140317-190743.jpg

20140317-190750.jpg

20140317-190807.jpg

20140317-190816.jpg

20140317-190846.jpg

20140317-190859.jpg

My home is a type of autobiography.

I am imperfect.

My faucet leaks;

My fridge door handle is broken;

My stove drawer is faulty;

My dishwasher is broken;

My garburator never worked;

My closets doors need replacing;

My carpets are dirty

My venetian blinds bent

My walls in need of a fresh coat

My tiles are cracked

And I’m on a busy street…

But to my family I am perfect

Full of love and warmth,

hot baths,

tears,

laughter,

growth,

pets.

I facilitate creativity in my imperfect ways

I am a library

an art studio

a recording studio

an office

a restaurant

a refuge

a place to die

a place to live

a home.