Tag: home

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Thirty days hath September

I’m young at heart, and recently celebrated my 39 1/2 birthday, but few things keep you as flexible and free-spirited as children.  Last night was a good reminder of that.

Fire and Ice SorryFour of us negotiated pawns in the new “fire and ice” version of Sorry, when we stopped to comment on the intermittent percussion piercing the quiet evening.

Blue went to investigate and came to report there were fireworks nearby! You may not know this, but fireworks are one of my favorite things.  “I wanna see!” said my inner 10-year-old, and we dashed outside to check them out.

Barefoot, we stood in the grass, craning necks and blocking  street lights with palms to admire the colorful blasts lighting the sky. The youngest among us decided it was a great time to run around and requested we time him as he ran back and forth between mailboxes.

Suddenly it was a race. We each staked out lanes in the middle of the empty street and scouted a finish line. A nearby fire hydrant seemed a good marker, and I silently questioned the wisdom of sprinting in a dress without so much as a warm up or stretch. Off we went, legs flying, balls of feet smacking pavement.

Seconds later it was over. Breathless, laughing, we turned around and walked back, girls gloating – the clear winners. Back indoors we finished our game. Boys the winners that time.

And with that, August ended with a bang.

Now it’s the first day of September, and it’s time to begin blogging again. This post opens the month and opens my next 30 and 30 challenge. Over the next 30 days, my plan is to write 30 posts. As always, they’ll be about whatever moves me at the time. I hope you’ll hang around.

See you tomorrow.

xoxo

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Where to?

So I’m moving, that much is clear, but it seems the where to is a great deal muddier. The short answer is, back home. It’s second nature to call Atlanta home, since that’s where I was born and raised, but honestly, I feel funny about it. In the technical sense, it is or was home, but as I wrote in November:

What is home, exactly? A place or a moment that resonates. It’s gathering of old friends around a good game of Taboo. A visit to the tried and true corner barbershop one Saturday morning.  Sometimes home is less fleeting. It’s a city where sunshine runs rampant. A house you’ve built with your partner. Whenever, wherever your heart feels welcomed and your spirit feels at ease, is home.

Moments and people in Atlanta resonated that way, but as a city, Atlanta never felt like home. At the time I penned that post, I felt pulled to leave this place, despite the fact I am definitely home here. It seems I was in Tampa for a reason and a season, but not a lifetime; and here at the dawn of Spring, it’s time to make a new start in an old haunt.

4 days. #countdown

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A word on packing.

So I’m moving. According to my countdown app, in 10 days and 18 hours, the moving guys from Blitz will be loading up the truck.  Once people find out you’re moving, and D-day is close at hand, they start asking questions. Really, it’s just one question, but it comes in a few different flavors:

  1. Have you started packing already?
  2. How’s the packing coming along?
  3. Do you have a lot left to pack?

In order, the answers are:

  1. No.
  2. It isn’t.
  3. Yes, everything.

It’s part of my process. As one who has moved several times in recent years with basically the same stuff, I know I can pack in 2 days flat. One and a half if I’m really not feeling it. All of this includes a great deal of focus and plenty of sleep in between. I don’t believe in all-nighters.

I’d like to say I delay packing because I’m always busy, but that wouldn’t be true. Usually it’s more resistance. Stalling. Waiting until the last possible minute while I lounge around the house wondering when I’m going to start. My writing looks much the same way. In fact, once I start resisting and doing everything else, that’s when I know I’m almost ready to get words down.

But I digress.

This particular time I have been busy. In fact, I’ve barely been home long enough to unpack, wash clothes and repack, so forget about getting some boxes and packing stuff. But this weekend I think I’m going to get some boxes, at least. Maybe even tape a few together.

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On ironing and grief. #NaBloPoMo #amwriting.

I remember when I stopped ironing.

As a young girl, I ironed all the time. And to some degree, ironing suited me. I’d iron shirt after shirt, and soon enough I’d be in a mindless rhythm. My thoughts were free to imagine new scenes for my current short story, or remember favorite scenes from a Judy Blume in progress. Usually I’d iron in the den on weekends. Daddy stretched out in his easy chair watching sports of some sort, momma half-watching, half-devouring a novel. It was easy, ironing was.

As I grew older, I continued ironing as needed. Didn’t think much of it. Maybe I no longer ironed clothes on weekends. Maybe I simply ironed the night before, as I laid out clothes for school.

In college, ironing happened decidedly less often. Using that mini surfboard on the bed proved neither effective nor fun, and it was college. Everyone knew you just needed to get your clothes out of the dryer while they were still warm. Ironing was reserved for the really stubborn creases, and only then at the last possible minute.

I entered the workforce and ironing again became a regular occurrence. Sometimes it was the evening before, yet more often than not, I saved it for my morning routine. There wasn’t much to it, after all. It was just ironing.

I remember when I stopped ironing.

Months after momma died unexpectedly, grief became stress became a fog. Life was thick. Heavy. Clouded over. Every morning it was time to get dressed and go teach my 4th graders, yet it got harder, not easier. Where was it? Where was the outfit I could just put on? I didn’t want to think about ironing. I couldn’t bear the thought.

I was near tears one day, trying to figure out tomorrow’s outfit and the requisite ironing, when cousin big sister suggested a radical idea: dry cleaners. I had only associated dry cleaning with my dad’s work shirts. Momma and I dropped them off early mornings before school and picked them up in the afternoons.

Neatly pressed clothes sans stress? Sign me up. I sighed away 10 pounds.

And thus marked the beginning of the end of ironing. Soon enough, through geography and professional choices, I all but eliminated the need for pressed clothes from my life. For years I donned sarongs and sundresses, jeans and fitted t-shirts.

—

As of late, the iron is no longer content to make cameos. It seems to be pushing for a more starring role. Yesterday’s sheath dress required a tap from the hotel iron, as did today’s button-down and slacks. And it was easy enough. There isn’t much to it, after all. It’s just ironing.

But I remember when I stopped ironing.

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Home, revisited. A meditation.

I pressed the lap button at 2.5 miles, only to find out I was never keeping time. I did what I sometimes do in circumstances like this…I stopped running. I had gotten off to a much later start than usual, so the sun was bright overhead, and walking a few paces in the cheerful warmth was a welcome commune with nature. I spotted fish, not merely jumping, but seriously engaged in sport and one-upmanship. I spoke to a couple of ducks on the trail. The easy pace and beautiful scenery got me in a meditative mood. I mused about home.

What is home, exactly? A place or a moment that resonates. It’s gathering of old friends around a good game of Taboo. A visit to the tried and true corner barbershop one Saturday morning.  Sometimes home is less fleeting. It’s a city where sunshine runs rampant. A house you’ve built with your partner. Whenever, wherever your heart feels welcomed and your spirit feels at ease, is home.

Home has been on my mind as of late. I’m unsettled. That’s a bit of a revelation, because I was drawn to my current city. I quite literally ached to be here. And when I moved here (for the second time) it resonated so strongly with me, I was loath to be away for any period of time. I was home.

But life is for the living and circumstances have changed. As beautiful as my surroundings are, they no longer seem to fit where I am internally. How it can be – a place I still love no longer resonates? I think it’s because this home was for healing. I needed to be here, in the sunshine, near the salty water. I had old wounds to tend. Wholeness to restore.

And then I learned to love again.

This space, my healing place, no longer carries the same resonance. My heart feels more welcomed and my spirit feels more at ease in other spaces. This home no longer feels like my home.

Yet, I am happy about that.

Despite being unsettled, I do know where my heart is, and there’s no place like home.

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Heading Home: A Freewrite. | #30in30 #WriteLikeCrazy

Between Dallas and Tampa.

I’m a rebel. I took out my approved electronics before the flight attendant told me I could. Mainly because we had been cruising above 10,000 feet for several minutes and she was past due with the announcement.

As timing would have it, as soon as I began typing, she gave me the official okay.

A baby’s laugh is the best sound known to humankind. Seriously. I challenge you to tell me a better sound. I’m not sure there’s a runner-up either.

Speaking of babies, I love to see men holding them. I’ve witnessed that often in recent months. Sometimes man and baby are with a partner, and sometimes not. I spy them cradling, caressing, tickling, kissing, feeding the little one. I credit feminism (smile).

This weekend has been a long slog in over-air conditioned spaces. Seriously. No, I’m not anemic, but when I’m too cold my fingers turn purple. And it wasn’t just me! Numerous people were hidden beneath fall layers in summertime, shivering all along. Many of us reside in warm climates. We like a bit of cool to temper the heat, but there’s no need to engage in refrigerator mimicry!

My friend told me she juices. No big deal until the bit about not using a centrifugal juicer. She presses her juices and this is, apparently, a superior way of going about it. It is also an expensive way of going about it. An investment, she explained.

I would like a glass of fresh juice right now (and not just because I’m writing about it). Unfortunately, there’s the small, yet inescapable matter of being mid-flight with no juice bar! Shady. I’m all about utopian thinking. I say we imagine airlines with juice bars and see what happens. If Whole Foods begins partnering with airlines, I expect a generous cut of the profits.

When I get home, it’ll be too late to visit a juice bar, and I do not own a juicer, centrifugal, presser, or otherwise. Tragic.

The best thing about being on the west coast was jet lag. It was so easy to wake up at 5 a.m.! My hotel had a comfortable bed, and I enjoyed talking with my roommate about Buddhism and fitness and safe spaces and life, but I am so excited to be on a plane headed home. Tomorrow I shall pick up my cat. I’m sure she will catch me up on all that went on while I was away.

5:49 PT. Midair.

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Stream of Consciousness Sunday: Home. Again.

#SOCsunday

How do you feel about change? Do you like routine and predictability? Does it bring you comfort or discontent? Talk about it general or tell us a specific story about a big change in your life and how you feel about it.

Change is good.

But it would be a lie to say I don’t like routine and predictability – especially since I find I thrive when I impose structure in an otherwise unstructured day, activity, task, or what have you.

I want to be stable. I’ve moved quite a bit in the past several years, mostly across the Georgia/Florida line. But I don’t want to have to think to recall my “last” address. I want to put down roots.

When I don’t feel the routine, structure, or location works, a shake up is in order, and that’s exactly the case right now. I moved here in July, hauling most of my stuff, yet again, across the state line. I like my apartment quite a bit, but months after I’d settled in, I found myself still imagining, praying about, thinking about, “a home I love and can easily afford.” It surprised me, but I knew deep down I hadn’t quite found it. Enter, change.

I needed a bit of a nudge. I was just about to let myself get comfortable in this space. I had fallen into the routine of this address. Predictable. Routinized. But the renewal letter came. Rent is going up (dramatically) and I will no longer pretend this is the best place for me.

I’ve got the moving thing down. I can pack up all of my stuff in 1-2 days max, and unpack it in the same amount of time. I’m excited about house hunting. I’m ready for a change.

This was my 5 minute Stream of Consciousness Sunday post. It’s five minutes of your time and a brain dump. Want to try it? Here are the rules…

  • Set a timer and write for 5 minutes.
  • Write an intro to the post if you want but don’t edit the post. No proofreading or spellchecking. This is writing in the raw.
  • Publish it somewhere. Anywhere. The back door to your blog if you want. But make it accessible.
  • Add the Stream of Consciousness Sunday badge to your post.
  • Link up your post below.
  • Visit your fellow bloggers and show some love.
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No Place Like Home

My cousin got married last fall. Like many weddings, it was an occasion for family and friends to reminisce, reconnect, and bond. The wedding reception found me tucked away in a corner with a few cousins, most notably, the beautiful, often elusive, V.  She inquired about my dissertation defense, mere days away, and my future plans. At that point I only knew I had to move. The sooner the better.

Home, Not Home
Athens had never been home to me, and Atlanta, although a great city in many ways, didn’t feel all that homey to me either. That I was born and raised there was immaterial. It wasn’t “home.”

V, a flight attendant, gushed about her love of NYC. It was her favorite city. She felt like herself there. Despite her world travels, there was no place she’d rather be. I wondered where my NYC would be. I knew it would be some place with a mild climate, near beaches, but that’s as far as I could figure.

Sunrise at Pass-A-Grille Beach

Border Crosser
I finished my Master’s degree 11 years ago. Since then I have moved seven times (four of those between GA and FL). Most of those moves were one and two year stints, and I usually knew they were temporary going in. I realized I was closer to finding home a year ago when I left St. Petersburg to return to Athens, and found myself aching for the luscious green grass, the humid, salty air, and the calming beaches. But even though there were many things I liked, even loved, about St. Pete, I still wasn’t ready to call it home.

A few weeks after the wedding, I graduated and found myself “in between.” I don’t do in between well. Job hunting and city hunting, I felt I had no clarity on next steps. Eventually it all took a toll on me and left me feeling kind of blah. Finally, I made some decisions, and in true form, the universe responded in kind. Within a few days I had a job offer, a clear path, and a new city to try out.

Where the Heart Is
This move was the first one during which I felt I were moving toward a new life. It felt permanent. Real. Settled.

I knew I was on to something when I had to visit my “hometown” (Atlanta) a few days after my move. Traveling to the airport, I was a child being dragged inside from the playground. No! Don’t wanna!

At the end of my three days there, I smiled inside, happy to be back on the plane heading back home, even though home was just a few days old.

Everyone who visits my new digs mentions how I seem poised to start a new life here. To them it feels like home.

To me too.