Saturday, September 1, 2012
Ten years ago I moved into this house. Katie and I painted nearly every wall. I remember when we brought Cameron home. Three years later, almost to the day, Leila arrived. Over the last decade we have filled the four bedrooms comfortably, finished a basement, and done countless repairs and upgrades. And at some point the wood and concrete, plaster and metal became a part of me. Our roots intertwined.
I never got over my childhood home. The home in which my father lived and died. We inhabited that space thirteen years before my mom remarried and we moved to an adjacent community.
At the time, the sense of loss was overwhelming. Not necessarily the change in friends or school, but the safety and familiarity of the walls that surrounded me.
Years after leaving, I had the most vivid dream. I was back in my childhood home. I quickly became aware of the fact that it wasn't real. I knew I was in the throws of a deep sleep and that I would awaken soon. So I consciously resolved to wander the halls one last time. I surveyed each room carefully trying to recapture the depth and breath of emotional that each space held. And then I said goodbye, and awoke to my present reality.
That's when I realized that "home" is not a physical place, but better yet a construct unwittingly created in each of our minds. Maybe like deja vu it is the fleeting sense of familiarity but also laced with an overwhelming dash of safety and remembrance.
But somehow sitting alone in the kitchen this morning as the sun rises, I realize that these artificial barriers help frame me. My love, my children, my countless books and pictures.
I am home.
Posted by Jordan Grumet at 11:33 AM