......home

Yogis,
Last Friday as I finished packing for my weekend at the beach, I stopped to look out the window one last time. Wanting to be sure I could see both mom and dad bluebird. It had become a daily ritual. Checking in on them. Making sure they were safe. There they were, worms in mouth, flying in and out of the house. Busy raising their young.  

Returning Monday afternoon, I immediately made a bee line to the backyard. Silence.

All day I kept checking. Cardinals, mourning doves, chickadees. No bluebirds. The babies had left. The parents were now empty nesters and saw no reason to hold onto real estate. They were once again free to be birds.

I let my friend know who had come over one afternoon to meet them. She said, “We are so tied to our homes. I’m always amazed how quickly young birds just leave. They have the right idea—'what’s out there to see?’ Their nests are only a convenience on the way to adventure, with a little mayhem thrown in.” I love that.

Lately I have been having thoughts…..well more like feelings…..about my house. We have been in this one for fourteen years now. I love it. I love everything about it. The layout, the energy, the colors, the yard, the woods, the neighborhood. It’s as if it and I are woven together. Yet last night as I sat outside beneath two of my towering beech trees, I realized that when it is time to go, I will simply walk out. That I am meant to be here now and then at some point I won’t.

We live next door to our old house. That house too had my heart. We raised our boys there. It taught me to get my hands in the dirt. We lived through three renovations to get it just how we wanted it. A reflection of who I am…..or was at that moment. I never imagined leaving, but when life threw some curve balls and we decided to move across the lawn, the threads that held us together were untied. I look over there at times and I see the ‘old me’ with fond memories, but I have never wished to go back.

I am wondering if this is because of my childhood. We moved every 2 to 3 years and our moves were almost always out of state. Each time my parents made it feel exciting. I could get a new bedspread, pick out carpet and decorate my room. I still remember the brown shag I chose in the seventies with the cactus bedspread. Once we even lived in a motel for a few months while a house was being built. I learned to settle into new homes quickly. I begin to feel like a hotel is home after only a couple nights. Even my tent under a star filled sky.

My parents instilled a sense in me that houses come and go. And while they are loved, they are not what make you feel at home. Home is found on the inside. The knowing that you are where you are supposed to be and that it is impermanent.

Humans began as nomads. Perhaps this newer concept of a permanent structure being home has the potential to hold us back if we hold on too tight. If we get too comfortable. Who knows ‘what’s out there to see!’  

Maybe the birds have it right.

Home is found in my soul,
SARAH