I have been having a hard time grasping what it will be like to go home. I have spent much of my career on the road and have tried to make my home wherever I’ve been. Fresh flowers, pictures, familiar knick-knacks that remind me of days gone by. My mom’s silver rosary she clutched in her hand into her later years. The Hail Mary’s and Our Father’s and Glory Be’s that were so ingrained in me as I was growing up a practicing Catholic. The fold out of St Jude to protect from harm’s way. My Buddha that helps me to remember the inner calm.
I have no idea what my home away from home would be like if all of these things weren’t there but I tell myself that they give me comfort when I am not surrounded by my memories of my real home. I have spent a few weeks here and there over the last year and a half in my house but this time will be different. This time it will be my home alone.
I’m not saying that as a sad or depressing notion. Only that I’m not quite sure in which direction my feelings will go. I know there is a lot of work to be done as it took a hit during a freak rainstorm recently but it’s been repaired and now the real work begins. I have so many ideas as to what the backyard needs and a long-needed new front door. The garden has been somewhat neglected not because it hasn’t been attended to but just because it hasn’t been attended to by me. I have a mean streak of Martha Stewart in me that doesn’t let me rest until my eyes fall on the perfect scene.
It’s crazy but it’s my way of making my home a sanctuary. A place I can go to for respite when all else seems to be chaos. To sit on my veranda and sip a lovely glass of wine and know I am home. I am really home.