Where's Home? Category 3: Home is searching for us!

In this, the 3rd of 4 posts unveiling the delicious entries for the 'Where's Home?' contest/exercise, the submissions of Tania Crawford, Jodi Yaver,  Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer, Candace Brey and Michelle Meech are about how home is searching for us!  There are some remarkable expressions here...big bows to each of you for submitting.

The winners for this category are: Tania Crawford and Michelle Meech.  They will receive heirloom wildflower seeds for the place their hearts call home.

Again, loving thanks to the bloggers and sites that have and are promoting the 'Where's Home?' exercise: Patti Digh, Dave Pollard,  Carl McColman, Julia Harris, Karen Crone, Gayle Roberts, Ella Moss  and any others who posted a link or article to their blogs to help promote this exercise.

The 4th post of submissions will be: 'Where's Home?: We carry it with us like a turtle'.

The 5th and final post, sometime later this week, will consist of all the winning posts. You get to choose your overall favorites! 

Co-WINNER FOR THIS CATEGORY: Tania Crawford, Tumalo, Oregon

My Mom used to be able to talk...that was years ago, before the "Parkinson’s-like syndrome" robbed her of that ability. 
When I was 25 and going through a terrible divorce, she told me the story of how, when I was a small child, she caught me crying in the corner of my room.  She said through the sobs the only thing she could make out were the words "Mommy, I just want to go home".  She said her words, "Honey, you ARE home", only made me cry harder.

I had no memory of that time but as soon as she told me the story, an enormous sense of relief came over me.  There had been this aching, unidentifiable hole inside me for as long as I could remember.  Until I heard this story, I just thought I was somehow faulty -- somehow "not good enough".  Finally, though, this feeling of being an outsider in a town where I was fifth generation, this 'I have to be incredibly busy or else my thoughts will eat me' revealed itself...it was simply the longing for home.  Naming it, however, didn't necessarily mean changing it.

Years passed and the behaviors I had developed to compensate for feeling disconnected from home continued to dominate my life.  There were all sorts of bad relationships, abusive jobs, friends who used me and whom I used until one day, I'd had enough.  I quit.  Just like that.  I still didn't have a clue where home was.  I had just grown completely weary of looking for it in all the wrong places.  

My initial response was to get in the car and go looking for it.  I had no idea where I was going, what I was going to do or how long I'd be gone.  I just had to go.  I ended-up in a place called Butler Wash in Southern Utah.  My first night there happened to be Friday, May 13th.  I was sitting on a red butte doing nothing more than breathing when the biggest, brightest moon began rising and, all of a sudden, Home found me.  The awe of the moment broke through the illusion of separateness.  As the moon's enormous shadow reached me, I became part of the rocks, the stars, the air, the wonder...in that moment, there was truly only 'One'.  I had just experienced the place I was crying for as a child and I was forever changed.

Since that fateful night, I've had other wonderful experiences of Home.  Like the time I was floating naked in a natural hot spring. Every atom of my being had let go into total relaxation.  The door to home once again opened and this time I was graced by getting to stay for more than just a single exhale.  This time, time stopped and hours could have been moments and moments might have been hours. 

Naming and knowing my true home has brought me closer to my home on the planet...the one I experience from inside my skin and from inside my everyday life.  It's the home from which I inhabit the moments of THIS life.  It's the home that feeds me daily and the home that is only experienced from a place of acceptance -- acceptance, first and foremost, of my own being. 

These days, I wake up at home and fall asleep at home and carry home with me where ever I go.  There are those beautiful flickers in time though where the realization of home is so very acute.    Like the other night when I was playing with my old dog and loving her so much, I wept.  And, the time two months ago, when I was sitting in front of the fire journaling about how sad it is that Spring is coming.  The next think I knew, my hand had written a short poem on the yellow-lined paper:  "Winter is when the mystery is most alive...it dances in the flames of fires, swirls in the juiciness of Zinfandels, floats on the edges of snowflakes and wakes up slowly to January sunrises."

I find home so often in my utter appreciation of the "little things". Red-leaf lettuce from my garden.  My boyfriend making a silly joke. Cutting across my own reflection on my water-ski.  The sound of the hand-tuned wind chimes outside my bedroom window.  A voice mail from my five year old nephew.  An uncensored conversation with a dear friend.  I know I'm home when I'm present enough to truly cherish the things that are so easy to miss in a distracted life.

Through the years of cultivating home, I have discovered the importance of connection -- connection to myself, to another, to Mother/Father God.  The transformative, 'capital H'  Home always seems closest when I'm in communion with all three simultaneously. 

Even though that's still somewhat rare, the 'small h' home fills the longing I used to know so well.  It's the knowing where home is and the tending to life there that colors my life with authenticity, that makes all the conditions of my life okay and that makes ordinary extraordinary.
My search for home can be summarized with the words I wrote that glorious night when Home first found me: 

I sit in the shadow of the rising moon....
    Wondering....
        What would my life be like I had never denied, disowned, or disconnected from any part of myself, my body or my spirit?
        If I had never felt the shame of being human, if I had never identified with unlovable and unworthy and if I had never worshiped at the altar of my ego.
        If I recognized my shadow and all of its secrets as sacred and had embraced the darkness with love?
What would my life be like then?  

Now, almost twenty years later, I'm beginning to be able to answer that question:  I would always be Home.

  
Red rocks of Utah and the McKenzie River in Central Oregon

 

Jodi Yaver, Bend, Oregon (recently from Jacksonville, Florida)

To me, home is not just a place but a series of multiple tactile and sensual experiences. My concept of Home has always been associated with my parents' place of residence...wherever they may be. When I step into my parents' home, I am overcome with a familiar smell despite the change in physical location over the years. The air has a certain quality, a weight that I just can't explain but feels good, safe and warm. There is a sense of light that resides in my parents' home that is on the brighter side of the spectrum rather than darker that is also familiar and always there regardless of where they live. Home is noisy and still all at the same time. Food is a big part of home...it is easily accessible...on the countertops, in the pantry and the refrigerator too. One of the first things I always do when I return to my parents' home regardless of how long it has been is to check out the food...regardless of whether I am hungry...it is a reflex reaction to see and assess what is there and available for me! I can't explain it other that I know it is a familiar habit that has existed ever since I began visiting my parents. I have witnessed my sisters engaging in the very same behavior when they visit too!

Home is also in Bend and it became so the moment I drove in on 5/14/07 after my first drive over Mt Hood from the PDX airport.  The ride was stunning and breathtaking, expansive and unreal. I had no earthly idea where I was going or what I was doing but I knew I was headed home. I knew I was home the moment I set foot in the townhome that I am renting that I hadn't even seen (aside from digital pictures) before I picked up the keys. It was warm and comfortable...and light. I felt safe my very first night there despite the lack of most of my belongings including my bed (aero beds rock!). 

Home is taking fresh laundry out of the dryer and feeling the warmth as well as the fresh smell of clean clothes. Home is waking up to the light streaming into my bedroom as the birds are fervently singing.

Home is racing through an airport and laying eyes on and embracing those that I love for the first time after a period of time has gone by. Home is the unsolicited warm hug and embrace I may receive from a small child, whether she or he is family or just passing through.

Home is also waking up in the middle of the night and hearing familiar breathing, reaching over and feeling the warmth and softness of my partner's body as we sleep.

Home is memories of nuzzling my long haired cat after she had been lying in the sunlight, her fur all warm and soft in my face with her familiar baby-kitty smell as well as when she hunkered down on my chest sinking all of her weight into my body as she drifted off to sleep. There were times when we truly felt like one....

Home is being the first one in the building at work in the morning and disarming the alarm, turning on the lights and breathing in the calm and still around me in a place that later on often become busy, loud and familiarly chaotic!
Feelings of home wash over me as I walk along a trail while the warm sun is heating up the pine needles, resulting in one of the sweetest most intoxicating smells I know.

Home is sitting around a spiritual fire at Beth's on a cool evening. I can taste the red wine and the chocolate as I type....I can feel the genuineness and the kindness, the honesty, the depth of truth, pain, joy and love. I can hear the soft beat of the drum and the heartfelt singing that we sometimes do. I hear as well as smell the crackle and pop of the hot fire. The crying as well as the giggling, the good and bad jokes and of course using the f-word whenever possible and in various grammatical forms! The faces may change but the feelings are always the same.

The more I live and learn about life, the more I connect with like-minded souls, the more stillness I invite into my life, the more I experience the gift of feeling at home.

  
  'Girl in Field' by Barb Largent

Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer lives near Telluride, Colorado  Rosemerry  is a blogger on the Virtual Tea House.  She also blogs about parenting at Parenting Squad.

Where the Heart Is

Another lover might build you a castle—

a temple of stone with long mirror-lined halls

and a cadre of candles adorning the walls

to light your way through windowless nights. 

Maybe there’d be a sinewy moat

to protect you from the wicked world,

and a tall tower for watching summers pass.

Another lover might build you a mansion

filled with expensive vases and oversized chairs.

The high-ceilinged rooms would echo your voice,

and your lover would smile to hear you sing.

Tall doorways would frame you so strikingly,

and from each window long gardens would beckon you

to stroll amidst manicured rows.

But lover, I would build you a house in my heart

with a single story and an untamed yard. I’d make

a stone skirt using river rocks, each one smoothed by time.

The floors would be cherry, enduring, still alive

with the memory of sunshine and bloom. Every window

would open to let in the wind, every door would swing wide

to deliver you in. And in the center room, a place for fire.

My lover, I’d build you a home in my heart

on a fast-moving river with fortified banks.

And there I would raise high the roof beams of gladness,

and there, I would lower the ceiling of sighs.

And there, in the warmth of my heart’s kitchen  

I would feed you and knead you and bake bread for you.

In the halls of my heart, I would welcome you home.

 
Girls in Nepal watching a wedding procession 
Photo taken by Bill Wilson 2007

Candace Brey, Bend, Oregon

Journey

How long have I been climbing, descending,

spiraling, burrowing, running, stumbling, dancing,

kneeling and praying,

upon the staircase of my heart…

to answer the door,

to welcome the Beloved?

The knock, at times, is faint

and at times loud enough to sound the bell

of my very essence.

Coming,

  coming,

     coming…

I open the door

open the door

open the door

heavy and rusted with the salt of my tears.

The door swings slowly on hinges of hope and faith

until at last…

your eyes

your face

your Light

mirror my yearning.

There is nothing to do,

nowhere to go,

I am Home.

Co-WINNER FOR THIS CATEGORY: Michelle Meech from Bend, Oregon home; she is currently in 2nd year of seminary in Berkeley, California. Michelle is a blogger on the Virtual Tea House.

Impressions of Home

I see the snow-capped peaks from the plane. My study of them enables me to know exactly where it is from 30,000 ft. Even though I’m just passing by, the mountains are enough to make my heart leap in greeting.

I hear the notes of Michael Hedges’ guitar. My heart expands as I lay on my bed, my head rolls to look out the window to see the cherry blossoms against the bright blue springtime sky.

I’m sitting across the table from my friend during lunch, chatting about things that are close to our hearts with an ease that flows from the center of my being. There is no rush and no expectations. His eyes are good at smiling.

I locate myself in the music, this flowing, lyrical, melodic, waltzing rhythm that moves my body for me. My mind is just along for the ride as my limbs, my torso, my hips express this immediate moment in its response to God.

I sit looking at the computer screen, feeling the anxiety/irritation/disdain begin their subtle climb up my spine, the stink starting to infect my brain. Something whispers ‘breathe’ and I respond with a deep intake. My vision widens, my capacity expands and my belly shifts as my feet feel the ground again.

Marching in ordinary time along the green ribbon, I patiently await the blue season of expectation when the birth happens again and again. The liturgical cycle spirals me through my work and the flashing neon sign of Christ says, “Always open.”

Her garden breathes all the fragrant color of her soul. I’m savoring her spinach lasagna and her wise belly presence. Her heart is my heart is.

From somewhere in my sleep, I hear a gentle, rolling melody sing, “No matter which road you take from here, all roads will lead you home.” And then Souxsie and the Banshees ask Prudence to come out and play. An impish grin.

The invitation is always there to dive completely in with the giggling, gracious, unexpectant heart sister-home-womb-house. Liminal-space thoughts speak directly from our souls at the oddest hours.

Kneeling before the cross on Good Friday, I feel God’s call to give myself up again. I weep in the overwhelming example of Christ to give up absolutely everything he took himself to be. I am humble and raw.

I walk by the dying, dry pine tree and even in this marine climate, I smell the dry trails that rest along my river. I breathe in deeply everytime I pass it and for a second, I hear the pounding rush of her waters.

I stand there, hands on hips… pissed about whatever it is that I think is stopping me and tripping me up when I try to move. My anger directed at the very core of who I am. I’m tired and my body is too heavy to be moving like this. I feel the audible click of the paradigm shift and suddenly everything is perfect. My belly rests into the flow.

A lush, soft circle of pillows sits underneath the seats of shining hearts. These voices sing to Shiva the Destroyer, to Krishna the Protector, to Rama Sita the Both-And of God. A Bhakti-Bliss milkshake.

I look up from my computer screen and see the small painting that reminds me of the quiet wind as the golden hills shift their mood and the black eyes of the susans, lined up along the side of the road, patiently watch the speeding car parade.

Her sing-song voice of unconditional love… his impish, enthusiastic exclamations of laughter… her sweet, worldly kindness and care… his quiet, immense, hugging hospitality… her profound faith in the goodness of all people… his shyly intense engagement… all these hearts doing their work. I’m humbled in their presence.

The circle shares the pieces of itself like a pie might if it laughed and cried and sang and sat in silent reverence for the heart expressions of all those sweet-toothed seekers.

My body moves through its own preventative measures. My soul opens up and I see so much beauty that it overflows through me… absolutely and unapologetically abundant. And I know Adyashanti is right… “Love was never meant to be contained.”

This christ

This fire, this song

This bend in the river

This garden, this house

These beating hearts, oh these gorgeous-red-messy hearts

This breath

This dance

This home.