on the way home

“I always thought of myself as a house. I was always what I lived in. It didn't need to be big. It didn't even need to be beautiful. It just needed to be mine.”
~ George Monroe, Life as a House

Recently, my husband and I received an interesting lesson in the power of shifting perspectives.

What happened was, we put our house on the market and we almost bought another. Actually, the first property fell through; but then we found a second house we liked. Both shared so many features nearly every homeowner dreams about: gorgeous wraparound staircase, huge master suite, big backyard, extra bedrooms. So we surprised ourselves just a little when we ended up opting to stay in our two-bedroom condo.

It’s not that our humble little abode has everything we’ve always wanted. In fact, by certain legitimate standards it’s somewhat short on space, and there’s no backyard for our dogs. But as we waded through the process of trying to sell, it gradually occurred to us that for now, the house is simply ... enough. The place I’d noncommittally referred to as “my husband’s townhome” when we first got married has somehow become a reassuring refuge for us all. And for the time being, that’s more than sufficient.

I wondered how we’d come to this realization. I think it had to do with the time spent trying to sell to some anonymous stranger. We cleaned all the closets. We scrubbed all the floors. We positioned scented candles in the bedrooms. We did laundry and dishes, and polished the faucets, and vacuumed the carpets each day. And then we began to make our list of all the things that made it special. The list grew, and it grew, and it grew. And in the end, we simply sold ourselves.

Some years ago, a missionary from my church spent time with the people of Africa. He brought back startling pictures of houses built with hardened clay blocks atop crumbling rubble foundations. The floors were dirt, the doors were cardboard and the roofs were made of straw. He stayed with extended families of aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents, all of whom slept and ate and lived in a single room. And yet in nearly every photograph, those people were inexplicably peaceful, even occasionally laughing. Despite their poverty, in the face of constant hunger and hardship, they had somehow mastered the art of simple gratitude for each new day. And here we sit, one of the wealthiest nations on the planet, with rates of depression and suicide that constantly top the charts.

The night after we’d taken down the realtor sign, I brought home a DVD. My husband popped a bowl of popcorn and we sat together on the couch and watched. The dogs assumed their usual posts – Maizy in my husband’s lap; Grant on the sofa gazing out his window, the self-appointed family scout with his well-gnawed bone between his paws. It was a cozy, comfortable evening, unexciting by almost anyone’s standards. Springtime leaves were just beginning to blossom on the trees out back, and the little French door to our deck stood open. We’d had our dinner, the dishes were done, the breeze wafted quietly through the room, and we were all together.

That’s when we knew we were home.

reflections

Gray sky, open field, white mist, dark water. Canadian geese lifting off, reflected in measured pairs of two by two by two. I stand in the dormant grass with my hands in my pockets, and watch them disappear into the fog. I wonder where they’re headed and if it’s a place I’ve ever been.

I think about friendship and love; childhood and adulthood; and how the seasons of life aren’t nearly as different as they seem. Children, for instance, grow into adults who –- deep down -– really just want someone to kiss them goodnight, hold their hand, make them laugh, reassure them in the dark. Someone to turn to the world and say, simply yet reverently, “this is the one.”

Geese ascend, reflected in the pond, two by two by two. I think about the news I just received from an old dear friend, news that someone she cares about is leaving town. Her voice is measured and even as she mentions his decision was apparently abrupt and unavoidable; that he’ll be half a country away in just a couple of days. Poised in the air between us, like a waiting breath suspended, half-formed hopes seem to hover and dissipate. I think of migratory birds seeking somewhere safe to land. Her tone remains neutral when she remarks that this someone dropped off a parting gift.

A gift? I say. What sort of gift?

Geese in flight, gliding in a perfect letter “V,” defying gravity. Every movement so precise, synchronized, flowing, like a graceful ballroom dance. How do creatures such as this –- creatures who will walk, even stand, directly in front of a moving car –- achieve such effortless airborne unity? So many times, I remember looking into a cherished loved one’s eyes. Seeing only myself reflected there, isolated and uncertain. Realizing that a lifting off has occurred, but not in the same direction.

A mirror, she says. He brought over one of his mirrors. He said it reminded him of me.

Gray sky, open field, white mist, dark water. Geese angle upward, disappearing into the distance, two by two by two. Prompted by some unspoken accord, some tacit yet shared understanding, to explore destinations I can only begin to imagine. I stand in the dormant grass while an impassive silver lake reflects the shifting clouds, the changing seasons, and landscapes left behind.