Home

I don't believe in fate or the concept of destiny. I don't believe in paranormal activity. I can't wrap my mind around life after death or the idea of Heaven. Yet I can say with heart-felt honesty and conviction that I am SUPPOSED to be with JBL. It is an absolute like F=MA. I also admit that I have visited a medium and may - just a tiny bit - believe what he said about my dad. I am a dichotomy. I don't know who the hell I am. But I know some things are true at a level that is deeper than bone-deep. My certainty goes down deeper than my molecules. My certainty is at the sub-quark level, where there is more light than mass.

Things happen to me that are....what, serendipitous? Let me give some examples. Is it any surprise that my grandfather was there to give me money for the down-payment on my first house? Or that a friend-of-a-friend offered me a part-time, work-from-home job almost the instant J was ready for preschool? Good timing is all, you might say. But wait. Is it odd that JBL and I had the fight that permanently redefined our relationship in an establishment called the Crossroads Pub? Or that, when I was truly beginning to question my sanity, J brought home a stuffed animal wood thrush (complete with an accurate song that plays when you squeeze it)? Or that at the end of 2009 JBL fractured a rib that caused him intense pain in the region of his heart for months? Ok so that last one did not happen to me, but go with me on this.

It is no shock that last winter included a case of the shingles, back-to-back blizzards and a visit from the stomach flu fairy. Then things stabilized. Over the summer I had more work than I could handle (read: $$$) and possibly the most relaxing family vacation I have ever experienced. Then, based on practicality rather than knee-jerk emotion, JBL and I decided we would sell Sleepy Hollow. Everything about the decision felt good and right, perhaps because it coincided with the consideration of a house that was new (and pretty and filled with things we can't afford - a house that ultimately fell out of the running...but anyway).

I know we are going to move. In more ways than one, we have to move. I am looking forward to all the opportunity will afford us. Yet, I am painfully aware of what we will lose. As I struggle to reassure myself about the decision, I begin to see heavy-handed hints all around. What does home mean, really? The concept of place has always held a great deal of weight for me. So am I surprised to stumble upon this passage in my bedtime book Cutting for Stone? No. "...that loamy soil that nurtured Matron's roses was in my flesh. I said Ethyo-pya like a native.... The Entoto Mountains disappearing in darkness framed my horizon; if I left, those mountains would sink back to the ground, descend into nothingness; the mountains needed me to gaze at their tree-filled slopes, just as I needed them to be certain I was alive.... Light and dark. The General and the Emperor. Good and evil. All possibilities resided within me, and they required me to be here. If I left, what would be left of me?"

My answer to that question came quickly. I find peace and connection with place in many areas - take the Outer Banks for instance. It is easy to love a beach town in summer, but what makes it feel like home is also the easy rhythmic quality of our days regardless of the house we rent. JBL and I move around each other the same way in any kitchen, and enjoy wine together under the stars from any deck. Music is always with us, and the girls sleep peacefully as long as we are all together. Should I be taken aback, then, to come upon BHJ's recent post (dedicated to his mom), reflecting in part on this topic? Not at all. As usual, his words resonate intensely for me. He writes, "Imagine being home - how being home is an abundance of answers to questions you can't remember." Yes.

Home for us here is undoubtedly tied to the row of trees at the bottom of our hill, all of the little things we've put into this house to make it uniquely ours, and the love of our friends Sarah, Thor, and their kids. But I picture us in a home, any home, and the walls and land around can fall away like theater props. I may feel like this grass and this street is home to me now. But what is true and right, something I know deep deep in my soul, is that home will be wherever these three other people are. JBL, J and K are my answers and my place, and are more of a safe haven than any structure or location could ever be. Amen.

Updated 4/14/2011 - And it should be no surprise to anyone that the house we found to move into is 2004 Diane Lane. J's birth year and my mother's name. And it has beech trees in the front yard.

Things that are true (today)

1. Last summer I did a project in MS Access and I hated it. Even after reading 'Access for Dummies' I still couldn't figure out problems I encountered, and finally had to BEG my husband to help. It made me cry. And now the client has come back and asked for enhancements to the database and reports. I want to say, 'No,' but I can't. And it makes me want to cry again.

2. J has something she calls The Process Dance. It's more like a cheer, really, but she does it with panache. She hops, feet apart, arms pointing in opposite directions, and chants, 'Process! Process! Proooocessss!!' And I love her for it. If you knew me, you'd understand.

3. We are preparing to put our house on the market, and I am all conflicted about it. We want to live closer to a town where many of our friends and some of our family live. We want the girls to have a shorter bus ride to school. We want things in our house that would be ridiculous to change here (like have a different kind of hardwood throughout the main floor, or have a different structural configuration for our master bathroom). We can afford a little more now, and the change in lifestyle without so many hours on the road would be huge.... But (and there's always a but), I am feeling pangs of love for my current house lately, and it gives me pause. I can remind myself that we are happy wherever we are because we're all together. I can remind myself that I can plant new roses and new peonies and a new pink dogwood. I can assure myself that we can drive back out here to play with our favorite neighbors any time. That doesn't make it easy though. I really wish I could fast-forward time, and that's not a good thing.

All in all, life is good right now, so I should just shut the frack up.

Snow down

It is a snow day - our first of the year. J has been up since her normal weekend time, which I can only assume is 7-ish since I slept until almost 8 (we assumed schools would be closed, and J now goes right to the basement to play with the Wii rather than waking us up, God bless her).

After an enormous cup of hot chocolate with marshmallows, she rushed out to play with the neighbors in the snow. She has been playing ever since. Though she has been busy, the simplicity of her day reminds me of the beauty of childhood.

Think about the book The Snowy Day, where Peter has an adventure comprised of making tracks in the snow, climbing a small hill, and knowing that he is too young to have a snowball fight with the bigger kids. He returns home to a hot bath and a period of contemplation about his day. It's enough to put him right to sleep, presumably after a nice dinner. This single-strand pace of Peter's story relaxes me.

I see the same in J's own adventure. She takes the time to compare and contrast a dry marshmallow to one moistened by hot chocolate. She slides down our back hill, first on a sled and then just on her knees. She watches the boys and their frenetic activities as the wind swirls sparkling snow around her, kissing her cheeks pink. She and her friend B come inside for lunch, and discuss chicken nuggets and the unique properties of ketchup and honey. After one more round of Mario Kart, it's back out into the snow to experiment with the wagon.

The bracing cold will make the warmth of her bed tonight even more delicious than usual, as will the memories of a fantastic free-play day, far away from the usual tight schedule of school. I can imagine now the peace on her sleeping face when I kiss her goodnight, the slow deep breathing, the silent room warmed by the space heater.

This snow day reminds me to appreciate the intensity with which children experience their world, and how they do so one step at a time. It is yet another gift parenthood provides free of charge.

A new day

I want to express that I am feeling better, but I am afraid to. Do I dare say I have perspective and feel like I can control the ebb and flow? No, that's not exactly right.

What I can say is that I am in an ebb period right now, and that means more energy, more motivation, and a little bit of hope. It means I can more than just remember that the therapist recommended mindfulness therapy, I can employ some of the techniques and find success. I can preempt the spiral of negative thoughts that lead me to near-implosion, at least for now.

I can't, however, say I will never feel that crushing, debilitating feeling again, and that scares me. But I won't be daunted. I will take this day and its gifts - my desire to run, my pleasure at working at home with my husband downstairs in his office, my interest in making dinner and planning the logistical efforts needed to put our house on the market. Each of these things would have been overwhelming to me just two weeks ago. The feeling, this moment, is now light and clear.

For now I am grateful and cognizant. I wait for snow and think about lighting a fire in the fireplace when I finish my long run and my work day. And I am happy.

Fear

"I never feel like smiling!" she wailed, "I just wish I could smile!"

I knew she was exhausted. Lack of schedule, lots of holiday late-nights. It was all crashing down on her.

But still, what a thing to say. I imagined time flashing forward. She is 30 and weeping. She can't find a smile or an honest laugh. She is filled with self-doubt and a nagging negative voice that follows her every move. What does it even feel like to laugh anymore? All too familiar. Maybe it is simply a tired six-year-old talking. And then.

Atypical. The doctor's confident reassurances faded into the distance as the word settled in. Yes, it's OK, we got it all. But what if I hadn't found it? What if I miss the next one? I flash forward and she's not even there. My God...