I've never understood those who struggle staring at an empty page as they wonder what to write.
When I wrote for magazines, I started with the research, preceded by the point behind the article, summed up in a witty line or two that seldom made it into print.
With personal writing, like my blog, I came to the page with a line or two already written in my head.
But these days, my head is filled with inconsequential noise: concerns about money; where to move; where in the world I might belong if such a place exists. Perhaps not so inconsequential, but more than I can handle now.
As the weather warms around me, I think of my house--the porch I'd sit on to read at night; the back yard where I'd sunbathe, hidden from the neighbors; the garden I dreamed of building; the office I'd only begun to decorate; the breeze of the fan above my bed as I napped.
I didn't know how much I loved that house until I had to leave it.
I'm a woman alone; living off the goodness of the government disability program--below the poverty line. In the vicious cycle where I can't afford the rehab my body needs to work, and thus can't work, so can't afford what I need.
I can dream big all I want, but woman alone + poverty seldom equals the ability to own a home. I'm not naive. I know our little starter home was the best I'll ever get. And it was he who got the mortgage--all alone--not me.
I regret nagging; regret my lack of appreciation; regret turning into the worst parts of my mother. All because I tripped on the steps the first time we saw the house; all because I was much too insecure to see his vision; and because those godforsaken kitchen cupboards reminded me of the battle scars of the PTSD of my childhood.
It was beautiful when we left--his dreams achieved, but far too late for me.
Home is...not here...in another basement...alone.
Home is laughter, conversation, music, the sight of something outside larger than a slice of sky; a voice other than my own, that of a crazy cat lady speaking to her fur-children. Home is other people; other hands; other thoughts and opinions. Home is an invitation, a journey together--not a life sentence: forever and ever alone, amen.
The T-shirt I wear reads "Love Where You Live," but this is not living. As much as it hurts to know it, here is not my home.
