No place like home

I just read an essay by Bob Greene: “At holidays, those who stayed make ‘home’ home.” It’s an ode to the people who, like George Bailey in It’s a Wonderful Life, never left home. It’s also about what makes “home” home.

My husband and I did not stay. Not only did we leave, we moved around alot. Of course this happens in many families, so I don’t mean to paint it as a melodrama. One of my best friends also moved around alot as a child, and she attributes her adaptability and ease with new people to all those new places. But one of the consequences of many moves is that children don’t have a physical place to think about as home. The question is whether as adults, there’s any one place other than their own homes  that they identify enough with people they love to think of going there as “going home.”

I’m in my fifteenth home, not counting college dorms. My children lived in thirteen of those, and they’ve never lived in the house I live in now.

House #1: I grew up in one house. I moved into the aforementioned dorm, in the same town, when I went to college, and came home on breaks.

House #2: When I got married, we moved into a tiny rental house outside town.

House #3: About a month later my dad helped us get a mobile home and we moved into a trailer park. That’s where we lived when Heather was born.

House #4: A year after Art graduated from college (it would be 33 more years before I graduated), when Heather was two, we moved to Florida where my parents had a home where they planned to retire. They let us live there while we saved money for a down payment.

House #5: We bought our own house and lived in it for two and a half years.

House #6: Art got a job back “home,” so we moved north again. My dad had died before he retired, so we lived with my mother for nine months, waiting for our Florida house to sell and saving our money.

House #7: We bought another house, my favorite of them all. That’s where we lived when we adopted Tom and Paul was born.

House #8: Art joined the pastoral staff at a church, and we sold our home and moved into one of their parsonages.

House #9: Two years later he took a church in Colorado, and we moved west, into that little church’s parsonage, where we lived for nearly six years.

House #10: Art took a church back “home,” so we moved east and into another parsonage. That’s where we lived when Heather went to college and then got married.Things at that church went south, and I’m not talking geography. We had to leave after two and a half years.

House #11: We had no home, no savings, no paychecks. A friend’s parents wintered in South Carolina, and they graciously lent us their home while they were gone — except that they came home over Christmas, so for two weeks we had to vacate the house and make it look like we hadn’t been there. Our Christmas “vacation” was spent in Art’s parents home, since they also went away for the holidays.

House #12: After four months, we moved to Colorado again, this time to a different part of the state. Friends of ours who lived there found a house for us and engaged their whole church in remodeling it before we got there. We lived in that house for two years, during which time Tom left home.

House #13: The business Art was starting was struggling, and therefore so were we. Hint: do not start a business without money to live on for awhile. So we lost the home, which as it turned out had a crumbling foundation anyway, and we moved into a tiny run-down rental house.

House #14: Three months later we found a not-as-run-down rental house, next door to our friends, and we moved again. We ended up buying that house and lived there for 15 years. Paul graduated and moved out while we lived there, making it an empty nest.

House #15: Six years ago we moved here, where I still live. It’s a thousand miles away from my children, and none of them have ever lived in this house. I’d be very surprised if any of my children think of where I live as home. In fact, likely this place holds bad memories, since  their dad was deteriorating or near death when they visited.

As a mother, when they were younger I tried to make home a good place for them, for all of us. I hope they felt that. Now my first priority is to establish a home within myself, for me, and hopefully we can get back to the place where they will feel at home when they are with me, wherever we are. That’s the best I can do.

The irony is that the area where I live now is home to me. I left home again, to come home. I have returned, and I can feel my roots here. I guess I hope my children feel that way about where they live, either now or eventually.

Restoration

This morning our congregation sang these lyrics: “Rid me of myself, I belong to you.” I had to stop. It struck me that while the intent of these words is to worship God instead of self, for some people the more appropriate prayer is “bring me back to myself.” That’s what I found myself praying: To make me more fully the person God made me to be, so that I can accomplish what he made me to do.

When we moved here, I had a sense that it was for restoration of some kind. Then things just seemed to get even worse. Now I see that God is in the process of restoring me.  For way too many years I was a thin version of me. I adapted myself to my husband to the point where I lost touch with myself.  (I feel so bad that this is the me my children grew up with. I cheated us all. But I digress.)

So first, God, finish bringing me back to the person you made me to be. Then shine through me into my world, which is really your world. I know I belong to you, that your design in me is good, and that you delight in me.

I reject worm theology. I am God’s precious daughter.  To live with the mindset of a worm denies his love and grace.

Sticking my toe into vulnerability

For quite some time I’ve had this nudging to be more vulnerable in telling my story as I blog, and while I understand the power of that and part of me really wants to go for it, another huge part is scared spitless. Heck, I edit every blog post to death as it is. If there’s an errant comma I have to go back and fix it, and I worry about this that and the other thing that someone reading it might be hurt by or get the wrong idea from. Consequently I have writer’s block that I see as a form of constipation. So this is my first try to open up a tiny crack. Please be kind. I just have to try. It’ll be disjointed, but the next paragraph will tell why I’m making myself just let that be.

I’ve been coming smack up against my own perfectionism lately on all sides. I can’t escape looking at it. It’s exhausting me, and it’s affecting my work and relationships. I read blogs, and there other writers are, writing on the theme, as if a beam is focused on me. I hear a coworker express frustration at not being perfect, and I see myself.

It’s like I’ve decided that if people really know me, they’ll dismiss me, so I am very careful what I show. I get how false that is, how it’s just the opposite. But I’m still not free of it.

Of course if you’d come to my house you’d think I was anything but perfectionist. It only comes out to play in certain ways, but always in my own head.

I’ve always really liked James Taylor’s music. Tonight one of my Facebook friends shared a YouTube video of him singing “Fire and Rain.”

I sang along, then found myself smiling and really thankful he got sober and didn’t die from booze and drugs way back when. It would have been such a waste, and his clear eyes and talent that sits well on him speak something deep to me about hope.

My husband got sober too late, and the damage already caused by the alcohol killed him. Even before he died, it took his brilliant mind, sense of humor, warmth, wisdom and emotional presence from those of us who loved him. All that love and beauty got all mixed up with emotional isolation, flatness, manipulation, deception, and finally the loss of ability to think straight. It still makes me have a wave of nausea sometimes when I think about it, and we’re coming up on three years after his death.

Addiction is nothing to mess around with. James Taylor would say the same thing. I don’t find Lindsay Lohan or Charlie Sheen entertaining. Amy Winehouse’s death was so sad.

So now I find myself apparently addicted to trying to be perfect. Silly girl. Wouldn’t it be better to just be real? Jesus loves me just the way I am, limitations and messiness and all. Hopefully I’ll learn to, too.

“Ring the bells that still can ring,

Forget your perfect offering.

There is a crack in everything,

That’s how the light gets in.”

–Leonard Cohen, in “Anthem”

Feeding my inner creative

This weekend I watched a documentary about design and advertising called Art and Copy. Several times during it I had to get up and do something creative, like pack up my camera to take to work or play with fabric scraps. It was that inspiring. I admire people who design, capturing concepts and our attention with words and images, and their drive for excellence.

Yes, we are drowning in commercial messages. But yes, art and copy can change the world in good ways, too.

Design matters as much as good writing matters.

I’m writing grant proposals this weekend, too. What a challenge, not to be boring. They’ve even removed the ability to control the layout of proposals, with online fill-in-the-field applications. I needed the beauty of that film.

My office got new furniture last week. Now the space is more than ever a canvas waiting for me to express myself and make it even more functional and nurturing. Slowly–it won’t be me if it happens all at once.

If you’re in the neighborhood, come and see.

Sifting my life

I find myself this morning burrowing through boxes I thought would stay closed for a good long time. It all started yesterday when I found out that I need a new furnace.  The good news buried in that bad news is that a new heating/cooling system will be hugely more energy efficient than my current 1975 models and will save me money big time on my utility bills, but I still have  to figure out how to pay for this. I know God will provide for me. He always has, one way or the other, but I’m working with him here. I know my cushion won’t cover the whole expense. For some time I’ve been tossing around the idea of signing up with airbnb.com, offering my guest room to travelers for some extra income. Now the furnace issue is pushing me to get serious, and before I can actually do that I have to clear out the closet in there. Hence, going through boxes. Some I can just carry downstairs, but others maybe it’s time to weed stuff out. Again.

I boxed this stuff up during the year after my husband died. As widows do, I went through his stuff, got rid of lots, and saved some. I haven’t opened it again in two years. So far I’m one book box in. Already the process drains me. I thought I was done with this.

Just now I messaged a relative to ask if she and her husband, in seminary, want some of the theology/devotional books. I’ve put a Spanish-English Bible and a U.S. Constitution/Declaration of Independence booklet in my tote bag to take to work Monday, to put out for food pantry clients, because our experience shows that people are not just hungry for food, they are hungry for something that feeds their soul and mind.

Then I picked up a couple of my own books that I’d boxed up because I hadn’t looked at them in probably fifteen years: When I Am an Old Woman I Shall Wear Purple and If I Had My Life to Live Over I Would Pick More Daisies. They’ve become stereotypes since I bought them, and I figured they were Goodwill bound. But when I opened one and read a random poem, it took me straight to my mother, who died by my side in 2001, and I think I may need to reread both books again. I go to another poem, and there I am, too. At least for now, they will return to my shelf.

I still don’t know if I’ll follow through on this airbnb.com idea, but I’m closer to it than before. I don’t even know if I’ll ever be done sifting through things — and thoughts, and memories, and emotions. This is what it means to be alive, right?

By the way, I’ve been reading Joshua Becker’s blog, Becoming Minimalist. If you want encouragement for simplifying your life, you might want to check it out. Just be warned, that the process of thinning out possessions will often take you to some important emotions. But that’s really a good thing, too, is it not?

Onward.

 

Space design, art, and life

Something got into me on Wednesday and I moved furniture in my office. It’s just got to work better for me and my office mate. Coworkers have of course noticed that something is different. One commented that I need artwork of some kind on the walls. She said, “What about those posters?” indicating the three that someone in our frugal nonprofit put in there because no one else wanted them, three years ago when we first occupied the building. They won’t do, I told her, because “they’re what’s left. I’ve had it with what’s left.”

If you’ve read some of my other blog posts, you know I love to recycle, upcycle, get creative with what’s left. Still true. It’s one way I express me. But it’s also true that I’ve had it with what’s left. If I can’t remake it, repurpose it, I can’t accept something readymade that fits someone else’s taste. This goes beyond office artwork. I’m so glad I could actually utter those words.

Until I find artwork that expresses me, pleases me, I at least took in one of my philodendrons. Life. Growth. It’s good.

Basil, salt, and baking soda–not just for cooking

I’ve found two more frugal solutions to pesky problems. Wanna hear?

First, mosquitoes seem to love me. And when they bite, I get these hard half-dollar-sized knots that itch insanely, and sometimes a rash even comes a distance away from the bite. I usually douse myself in mosquito repellent when I’m going to be out, but if I forget or miss a spot, they find me and invite all their friends and relations. No, I don’t have a natural mosquito repellent — yet. But what I can tell you is that basil tea is a great natural itch remedy. I grew my own basil a couple of years ago and still have some dried in my cupboard. I boiled about a half cup of water in the microwave, crunched up some basil leaves into it, and left it to steep for a good ten minutes at least, then strained out the leaves and put it in the fridge to chill. A cotton makeup pad dipped in it and smeared on the mass of bite bumps, and relief comes fast. Besides, I like the way it smells. I’m keeping a jar of it in my refrigerator throughout warm weather from now on.

Second, according to home and office organizer Heidi DeCoux, salt and baking soda will open up a slow drain, if the problem is grease and not hair. I tried it in my kitchen sink, and I’m very impressed at how fast and well it worked. This costs pennies instead of whatever one pays for Drano these days, and is much less toxic.

Now about that mosquito repellent: Any natural suggestions? (Citronella makes my eyes water.)

A quick rant: Is writing a commodity?

How it’s written matters, whether you’re building a business, nonprofit, or personal brand. Bad writing affects your professional image just as much as a misspelled sign, dirty tables in a diner, ignoring customer phone calls, even rudeness. In fact,  you show a lack of respect for your audience/customers/donor base when what goes out from your organization is not written with care. Busy people have no time for bad writing.

Good writing removes barriers to your message and engages hearts and minds.

Educated people tend to think they can write because they are educated. After all, they got through college and got decent grades on all those papers, didn’t they? Big difference between satisfying your sociology prof and writing to attract people who don’t know yet that they should care about what you have to say.

For starters: If it’s loaded with prepositional phrases and passive verbs, it’s not good writing. (If you don’t know what those are, you might want to find out.) If it’s redundant, it’s not good writing. If there are run-on sentences, it’s not good writing. If it’s full of industry jargon because that’s what you think of as professional, you’re wrong. If it makes people stop in midsentence because they aren’t sure what you mean, you’re gonna lose them. Littering your copy with exclamation points won’t get readers excited, either. Your writing needs to do that.

It’s gotta sparkle. It’s gotta pull them along without them thinking about it. I’ve heard actors praised when “you can’t catch them acting.” In other words, Meryl Streep portrays the character so well you forget you’re watching her act. She carries you into that person, into the story. Maybe this is one reason why people don’t realize the value of good writing. It become transparent, carrying you straight to the message.

Just like in graphic design, if you want something professional and you’re not trained, hire a professional. That being said, it irks me that writing is being devalued. So many people in business expect that they can pay $5 or less per blog post to a professional writer. That’s sweat shop pay. Others, trying to economize, let just anything go out of their office as long as there are no blatant typos. Makes me cringe.

Mediocre writing communicates something, but believe me, it’s not something good.

Ideas that nourish

I don’t blog more often because I can’t decide what this blog is about. It’s like a fish in the boat, flopping around. It has ADD. If I could just accept that it doesn’t have to have one theme — but all the best blogs do. Carol, you don’t have to be a high achiever in this. Just express yourself.

I am driven to share what I read, what I hear. I learn something that makes me think or feel, and I immediately think of someone I know whom I truly believe would love to also read/hear it. Sometimes I think that if just the right people could read what I just read, some piece of how the world works would change in a good way. My friends and the people I work with have learned this about me. One of them says she knows that I don’t send something unless it’s important and so she always reads it. Another says, “Sometimes you read too much.” Impossible. I have learned to mostly not share stuff with my children. Giving reading recommendations to husband, when I had one, or children has never worked for me.

For instance, I just watched a TED talk about hunger and some ways other than relief in which food supplies are being transformed all over the world. My mind starts to buzz. I work for a nonprofit that among other things has one of the largest food pantries in northern Indiana, and could we adapt just one nugget of what Josette Sheeran said in this talk and make a more longterm, more community strengthening, more empowering difference?

I’d love to hear what you think.

Simple summer pleasures

Lightning bugs rising at dusk out of my back yard grass, where stripes still show that it’s freshly mowed.

A lemon slice in ice water.

Fresh little zucchini, sliced and sauteed on olive oil with an equally fresh green onion, a handful of mushroom slices, and oregano from my own patch.

Car window down driving home.

Bare feet and sandals

A ridiculously low natural gas bill

Waking up when it’s light outside

Fresh blueberries to snack on like popcorn.

Not shivering

Cotton. Linen. White bangles