Going Home, But Not Again – Part 1

This month I had two experiences with “going home”.  One was coming home to Tennessee, to the house my parents have been in for 25 years.   These trips home used to be stressful.  It is challenging to be a grown up in the environment in which you once were a child.  You might find yourself acting like a belligerent teenager again.  Or you might bristle from an innocent comment which throws you back to a long ago hurt you still aren’t quite over.  But these days, I find I no longer return to the home of my early adulthood.

Instead I stand in the same old structure with a new sense of self, which I quietly refuse to leave at the doorstep.

I remind myself of how old I am now.  I am not just a child, but a parent.  Under this roof, I am not just a parent, but someone’s child.  I bring back to this house experiences I did not have when last I crossed the threshold.  Things no one here fully understands.  But the love shared here supports new experiences.  The love grows and changes.  It tries to understand, even when there are no words with which to create a completely comforting reply.

So I respect the context of the past in which my present now resides.  And I try to focus moment to moment on the here and now.

I watch my six-year-old’s face as she plays with a grandparent who vaguely resembles the mother of my own young self.  The thought “I was never allowed to touch that!” washes over me, but I watch it dissipate in the joy of my child’s delight.

I see my father’s infinite patience with my children’s antics, when patience would not have been there for me at the same age.  And instead of resentment, I feel genuine appreciation for how much he has grown and for the fact that my children experience only his warmth and love.

I listen to my mother read stories from the same pages she turned in my little bed years ago.  And the next night my children want the same story again, this time read by me.  As the words stick in my throat, I am filled with gratitude for my parents, for the dreams they had for me, for the dreams they willingly let go of as they watched me become my own person instead.

I love this house.  I love this home.  I am blessed that I carry a part of it around in my heart no matter where I go.  For the love in this place has stayed constant through change and uncertainty.

I chose to be here then, as I still am in this moment.

And for that I will forever be thankful.