How many times can you go home?
Every staggered experience. Finding love, saying good bye to a cherished dog. Hanging curtains in a new place to live. Standing over headstones in a weedy cemetery. Looking up at clouds, searching the outlines hoping to see a familiar shape.
Grass feels greener in some places. Home can be a view of a field, abuzz with flyers looking to land for a few seconds. Home is the laughter that accompanies a meal in the kitchen. The warmth of a hearth and the chill in a glass poured to quench your thirst without dousing your inner fire.
Home becomes you. It is the old saltbox house that once heard the steps of little feet. Long past, long left to dissolve into the earth and return as trees. Trees to be brought to the ground and hewn into the walls of a house. Houses that name souls gone on before. Through times of decision and derision, leaving places for parts unknown. Risking it all for someone else’s future. Times of change and tolerance. Times of sweat and the hell of war.
Grace hopes you will harbor home for others. All that feeding and laughter. All that story telling. All that pain in between, the inexplicable need to hurt…the rapid and undesired spiral toward toil. When you writhe in agony, it takes but a sliver of light to reach you in the depths of your dark night. Grace brings morning every time, warm tea for you, and clean water to soothe your weariness.
You birth home on a winter day. It can walk already knowing how to suckle…there is no lesson needed. It wants nothing but your want for it. It fills your black cavernous spaces with hopes and dreams. Dares you to face your fears and stand up to those dreaded thoughts of missed chances and innocence stolen. Home offers you a place to be, with all your faults and misgivings, to open boxes and shed doors….that you might find your place at the table.