Home, sweet home...
Home is where the heart is.
I’ve been living in a very old house for over 50 years. It was built in the late 1700s. That’s old for the built environment in the United States. In Europe it would be a different story.
This has been right for me in so many ways. I feel the integrity of these old materials and old methods of building in my body. The hand-hewn beams, the brick walls of a central heating system that originally consisted of three fireplaces, the door handles made by a blacksmith.
I can sit in front of my fiery wood stove on a cold winter day, while my laundry dries on the rack above it, using my laptop with wi-fi, and be part of the always moving, always changing evolution of the way we live.
A room with a view…
The first decade or so that I lived here, after a wandering, wondering youth, I felt afraid to leave, even for a short time. I wasn’t afraid of the big world; I was afraid that if I left I might not be able to get back.
This whole place was a weighted blanket for me. As much as I love the house, I love the view even more. The view from here has been my comfort, my therapist, my teacher, my inspiration.
Home is where the heart is…
Solid granite endures for centuries, and the view from here for just as long as nothing changes. We all know how long that is. I want both . . . I want infinite, perfect wholeness and stillness, and I want time and space and the profound joy of the particular. I’m human. I honor the rock and earth of my being. What I want to explore and play with is what grows out of that ground and how it appears in the light and shade of the moment.
This place where I live means so much to me, and yet my dearest wish is to feel that my home is within me—that I cannot be separated from it no matter where I go.
May your home be where your heart is...