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Sliding Back into Home ...
May. 3rd, 2009 08:22 pmWe dropped the parental units off at the airport this evening. Another visit survived. I enjoy seeing them, but there are also things about them being here that are difficult for me. I'll just fall back on my old, stand-by mantra: "You can't go home again," and leave it at that. 'Nuff said. Overall, I think it was a pretty good visit. They enjoyed being with the child unit, and she always loves seeing them. I never really had grandparents, so I think it's important for my kiddo to spend as much time as she can with them. It's something I always feel like I missed out on, and something I wish I would have had. And, in spite of my own emotional difficulties with an extended visit, I enjoyed seeing them, too. They're my parents. At the end of the day, I love them. I may not understand them most of the time, but the love is still there.
I'm looking forward to life, in general, getting back to normal around here. After waving them through airport security, I felt this sense of calm settle over me. It's hard to explain, but sort of a feeling of peace and well-being that had been lacking over the past few weeks. Just this feeling of everything once again being all right with the world. Once more, I could walk into my home and feel it was truly mine. I could put things where I wanted. I could speak my dreams aloud without anyone telling me I was silly or that it would never work. Just, overall, relief at the idea that things would be "normal" again. I don't think you can put a price on that, really. I've come to realize it's one of the most precious feelings in life -- so precious that we often take "normal" for granted. And yet, "normal" is beautiful. It means something. It counts for something.
Tomorrow, I should get busy on some of the projects I want to do around the house. I need to clean (again) our bedroom. Hubby is a world-class clutterer. I need to pull the books off the shelves here in the office and restack them. I need to do the same thing to my big armoire, which was supposed to be my "clothes closet" but has ended up as the repository for most of the things I hold dearest in life. Any little thing or treasure I get finds its way in there ... "for safekeeping", I whisper to myself. I guess I'm a hoarder at heart. I do the same thing with my desires and dreams. I hoard them away in my heart and mind, too scared to speak them aloud, lest I watch them float away and pop in thin air -- no more substantial than the soap bubbles I played with when I was a kid. I need to write. I so, so, so need to write. Like a burning ache inside of me, all the more painful for having been kept from it for so many days.
Yet, I know it's more likely than not that I won't do any of these things. Instead, I'll curl up with Fae on the sofa in the downstairs family room. If it's chilly, we'll turn on the heater and fight over who gets to sit closest to it. I'll have a Coke or a glass of iced tea handy. I'll listen to the rain patter against the roof and slush down the gutters. And I'll spend the fleeting free moments of my day flipping through the Tivo selections recorded there -- deleting some and watching others. And, in that way, reclaiming my space.
I'm looking forward to life, in general, getting back to normal around here. After waving them through airport security, I felt this sense of calm settle over me. It's hard to explain, but sort of a feeling of peace and well-being that had been lacking over the past few weeks. Just this feeling of everything once again being all right with the world. Once more, I could walk into my home and feel it was truly mine. I could put things where I wanted. I could speak my dreams aloud without anyone telling me I was silly or that it would never work. Just, overall, relief at the idea that things would be "normal" again. I don't think you can put a price on that, really. I've come to realize it's one of the most precious feelings in life -- so precious that we often take "normal" for granted. And yet, "normal" is beautiful. It means something. It counts for something.
Tomorrow, I should get busy on some of the projects I want to do around the house. I need to clean (again) our bedroom. Hubby is a world-class clutterer. I need to pull the books off the shelves here in the office and restack them. I need to do the same thing to my big armoire, which was supposed to be my "clothes closet" but has ended up as the repository for most of the things I hold dearest in life. Any little thing or treasure I get finds its way in there ... "for safekeeping", I whisper to myself. I guess I'm a hoarder at heart. I do the same thing with my desires and dreams. I hoard them away in my heart and mind, too scared to speak them aloud, lest I watch them float away and pop in thin air -- no more substantial than the soap bubbles I played with when I was a kid. I need to write. I so, so, so need to write. Like a burning ache inside of me, all the more painful for having been kept from it for so many days.
Yet, I know it's more likely than not that I won't do any of these things. Instead, I'll curl up with Fae on the sofa in the downstairs family room. If it's chilly, we'll turn on the heater and fight over who gets to sit closest to it. I'll have a Coke or a glass of iced tea handy. I'll listen to the rain patter against the roof and slush down the gutters. And I'll spend the fleeting free moments of my day flipping through the Tivo selections recorded there -- deleting some and watching others. And, in that way, reclaiming my space.