There’s no place like home

These are heavy times, and I've been trying to reduce my time on social media. I am shaken to my core by all that is going on, deeply saddened, and fearful of what lies ahead. I am distracted and anxious.

Home is always a source of comfort for me, where I (re)turn my focus in times of distress. We are truly blessed in our home, a mid-century beauty with incredible outdoor spaces that can be enjoyed nearly every day of the year. As people flee war and natural disasters across the globe, I am particularly mindful of the privilege I enjoy in having a home at all.

Ours is a modest house, but so lovely in my eyes. Sometimes, I grumble about the well-loved wooden floors and the mismatched appliances. Sometimes, all the tiny imperfections loom large in my mind, including (especially?) the bungee cord holding up the shower head in the bathroom. Our house is an ever-evolving project. One thing gets fixed, and another thing breaks.

We moved into this home 34 years ago as a young couple. It seemed huge to us then, and I remember dancing with arms flung wide in the empty, echoing spaces. Some of the rooms remained largely empty for a few years. But we've managed to fill the space with an eclectic collection of not very practical furniture, some of the pieces from previous generations of my family. And books, some of our favorite companions. There’s a beat-up tall grand piano in the living room and a cello in a bright green case tucked into the corner next to it. A ukulele sits on an antique chair. An ancient cabinet made its way from the East and to us; it takes up most of one wall and is filled with various treasures from church rummage sales, family “heirlooms”, and an enormous jar of marbles. We also have plants everywhere: lush green foliage and blooming orchids.

My childhood and young adulthood involved many moves, and I swore we'd plant deep roots here. And we have. It's the place that always grounds me. 

This house took on even more meaning to our family during the pandemic. Our adult daughter, Natalie, and her dog returned home and lived with us for long periods. She was in graduate school at the time, living alone in on-campus housing, and it made sense. I hold those days so precious. With all three of us working and studying out of home, it was crowded. But being together was everything. It always is.

We spent a lot of time in the backyard during the pandemic. Recently, Natalie, brought her great sense of energy home for a week. She organized a family work day to "refresh" the patio. Everything was thoroughly cleaned. Under her direction, we reorganized furniture, repotted plants, and bought new patio cushions. We got rid of a lot of junk: some broken pots, ancient plant stands, and other yard detritus. 

Since she left, I've again made spending time out on the patio a daily priority. I use my Merlin app to record the birds, adding my sightings to a growing digital collection. Especially in the morning, the air is alive with bird sound. Doves, nesting nearby, vocalize a throaty hoot that might be mistaken for an owl. As the light expands, towhees, sparrows, and wrens emerge. These are the workaday birds, among my favorites. They hop in and out of the rosemary bushes, the brush of their wings releasing a pungent, piney scent. They perch on the brick planter and peck around the yard in small groups. The lemon tree, with its glossy green leaves, is alight with birds. The old lattice is sagging: the birds pop in and out of the weave, heads cocked, busy with birdish enterprises. A scrub jay visits regularly; he perches on the sagging power line and then swoops down. He is one of the two jays that plant peanuts in our yard. The hummingbirds buzz in the apple tree, swooping low over my head as they race to the feeder my husband has hung near my favorite chair.

I find peace in this place, especially in times like this, when there is so little peace to be found in the news.

When I was in college, I studied literature. I especially reveled in poetry. Yesterday, I was thinking about a poem by William Wordsworth (best author name ever)..."The World is Too Much With Us."

"The world is too much with us; late and soon,

Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;—

Little we see in Nature that is ours;

We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!"

I've also been thinking about this selection from one of my favorite Gospels:

"Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives; the one who seeks finds; and to the one who knocks, the door will be opened."

In these troubled times, I am seeking simplicity and greater meaning. These quiet days right now are essential to me. They feed me, and provide opportunities for reflection and a pace that matches my sometimes slumping spirit and reduced energy. That is what I'm seeking in a world that has gone mad. Where I'm knocking is on my front door. 

The circle of home is contradictory: the space is small, and the focus is ordinary. Yet the lessons learned here, the experiences felt here, transcend time and place. 

I offer gratitude for my small, comfortable home, my family, the gifts of this place and time, and all the beautiful things I find here every day. Every journey starts in this place and ends here, as well.

In the Wizard of Oz, Dorothy sought to journey back home to a simple farm life on the Kansas plains that had been lost to her. She found it: all she had to do was ask.

I clicked my Bombas’ Sunday slippers three times and said, "There's no place like home." And I found myself here, surrounded by all I love.

Wishing you peace.

P.S. My beloved St. Paul’s Ventura choir recently sung an a cappella Compline service at Trinity Episcopal Church in Santa Barbara. The acoustics in the church are simply amazing. I’ve been listening to the recording a lot in the last few days. It brings me such a sense of peace. I love all of the pieces, but at the 24-minute mark, you can hear one of my all-time favorites: Ola Gjeilo’s Ubi Caritas. Here is the service recording: