mirror ball 51: home for my soul

Where I feel most at home: 

John S:

Thankfully, for me the answer to this question is simply, "I'm most at home in my house." I've had direct, strenuous, physical contact with much of this 1905 structure (ripping out a dropped ceiling and painted-over paneling from the 1970s, prying up many layers of flooring from the kitchen, tearing off aluminum siding and cedar shingles to get to the wonderful original siding), which has made me feel intimately connected to it. One specific place I'm quite proud of is the the arbor I built in the back yard, with a porch swing hanging under it. Now that the grape vine that we planted is 5 years old, the whole structure is covered with lovely green leaves and ripening fruit.

The expression "labor of love" is so applicable to our house. I can feel the love of our efforts to beautify that place and make it our own -- it has penetrated the walls and floors and fills the air, inside and out.

John M: 

Sort of a split decision here. I feel at home in my neighborhood, in my house, in my chair with my big cat Ripley lying on my chest purring. I feel at home with my partner of 14 years (newly my lawful husband). At 50 years old, I feel at home in my own skin.

There are also other places where I am home. On our honeymoon, we stayed for a few days in my home town and drove up to the place that used to be my dad's farm. It still felt like home, even though a lot has changed. The old barn is still there, the swampy pond in the barnyard, the weeping willow tree and the maple in the front yard. There is a relatively new building on the property with an apartment where my dad lived the last years of his life and where he died. I found out from a childhood friend on facebook that this friend had been the last person to see my dad alive. He asked him to light a cigarette for him, even as he was dying of lung cancer.

That place stopped being my literal home when I was 14, when my mom and dad split and I went with Mom. But it still is a part of the home in my heart. 

The subject reminds me of the Talking Heads song, "Home."  The only lyrics I remember are "Home/Is where I want to be/pick me up and take me there/ . . .But I guess I'm already there." 

Kristine:

hiking up at breakneck ridge on the hudson river and coming to my special out cropping of rock that looks out over the valley-always thrills me.

sitting on my friend, peggy's back porch in chicago-friends, dogs, good catching up and usually some wine brings me peaceful homecoming.

my brooklyn kitchen-especially on sunday when i do a lot of my cooking and listen to music and kitchen dance.

Dan B:

Water = home

When I'm submerged in it I am most myself. The air bubbles floating from my mouth, rising past my eyes. The way light is fractured when I look to the surface.

My breath not held - but releasing - slowly

And all that blue - blue - blue

Just me - until something appears out of nowhere - a fish, seaweed, bar of soap, cat's paw. - something recognizable - I return to the surface - gasp and plunge - down - in and float - unthinking and gazing out. 

Dave W:

In late 1989, a friend of mine had arranged his life so he could take five months and move to his great-grandfather's village in Greece and learn that ancient language. He invited me to come join him, so I took a second job, saved cash, and left the United States on April 2, 1990 for what would become a life-changing adventure. There were familial concerns that I was doing the wrong thing, leaving my job for who knows what. But I quickly learned it was the right decision to "chuck it all" when I stepped off the plane in Athens. I experienced a warmth and a depth in my chest, in my heart, that I had never experienced before. It truly felt as though the sun was originating in my chest and pouring forth great rivers of light, heat and love. There was no jet lag, no trepidation, no fear of the unknown, for deep inside me I knew where I was. I was home. 

Steve: 

One of the places I feel most at home is when I am in my kitchen and I've got music with great harmony playing, and I'm singing along, just starting to cook something that calls for lots of chopped and sauteed onions and garlic... all's right with the world.
Also at the end of the day when I am snuggled up with my husband in bed, preferably in flannel sheets. 

Chris H:

On a river.  Taking in a mayfly hatch.  Watching the seams for hungry trout.

Lori F:

We moved a few times throughout my childhood - from New York to Florida to Portland, Oregon.

My parents divorced when I was in my late twenties, which was awful and weird. When they split there really wasn't a home base left for me anymore.

The one place I can go to to feel truly at home is my grandmother’s home in Eastchester, New York.

My Grandma Ella lives there with my Aunt Barbara. Grandma is 92 years old. I lived in that house too when my parents were first married and were saving up to buy a place of their own in Ossining. My mom and dad both went to work and my grandma and I would spend our days together. We would go to the Five and Ten store and get milkshakes and grilled cheese sandwiches, go to the pool, and lounge on the "lanai" (aka porch.)

The thing I love about going back to NY to visit Grandma is that the house has not been updated or changed in any way - which you would think was a negative but for me is a positive. It still has that tiny L-shaped kitchen, wood paneling, and a pale pink bathroom with pale pink toilet paper (where do you buy that stuff?). Going back there makes me feel like a little kid again.

I still like to lay on the floor of her living room and look up at the chandelier. I look at the spot where the pool once was, and the tire swing and smile. I really wish that the Five and Ten wasn't replaced by an Old Navy so I could walk up and get myself a shake.