*testing* Is this thing on?

ruminations on home within and without

Hi!

It’s been some time, no? 2023 has been a year of healing for me. I’ve felt a return of my energy and general sense of purpose. I’d like to thank therapy, medication, my loved ones, and Taylor Swift’s Eras Tour. This space and my hopes for it have never been far from my mind but I released the self-imposed pressure to write, choosing instead to pursue creativity elsewhere for a while.

In many ways I am doing what I think is called “settling down.” My family is beginning its third year in the same city and the second year in the house we own. We have pets and a garden and first grade homework and volunteer committees and church swim parties and school pick up routines and family calendars and holiday plans and DIY built in bookshelves made to fit precisely around our third generation piano.

Photo by Maria Orlova on Unsplash

And yet I feel restless. In many ways I’ve got the stability I’ve long craved, but it’s like my soul misses the wandering. Rather than figure out how to develop my garden for its second year, I’m googling houses in other neighborhoods. I’m wondering if that job, the one over there with a different schedule, will make me happier. I’m planning my next romp around a state I’ve not yet visited. And I can’t decide what to write about. I spend an inordinate amount of time thinking and planning for all the things I want to write about and so little time putting my fingers to the keys or holding my new pens, bought just for this precise task, in my hand. The idea of home continues to be a very intriguing concept, but I’ve been stuck on where to take it. I struggle with perfectionism that tells me my ideas have to be JUST RIGHT before I bring them to light. My closest friends will tell you I’m never short on ideas to problem solve or creatively navigate any given situation. This has long felt like a virtue but it’s starting to feel like a vice. I think what I’m trying to say is that in all my wondering about concepts of home I’m still focused more on home as a place I can create or exist and less about how to nurture a sense of homefulness within myself.

As I notice this I’m thinking of how my soul really has been wandering. While our physical address has provided the stability we’ve needed, in many ways my soul has been on a pilgrimage. This year I officially left the faith tradition I called home since childhood and I’ve been making a new one. I’ve said I’m “becoming Episcopalian” for a long time. I wonder when I will allow myself to drop the “becoming” and own my newly adopted family identity.

I tend to associate feeling at home with contentment. Inevitably this leads to a lot of negative self talk. “Janette, if you were really grateful…” If I felt at home, surely my spirit wouldn’t feel so restless? But maybe I’ve set myself up for failure with those categories. So little is as mutually exclusive as we make it out to be. Is it possible that because I feel at home, I feel safe in letting my mind wander? Perhaps the safety of home is what enables my creative, ideating brain to flourish. Home is secure. There’s little to risk in dreaming. And… contentment is a virtue worth cultivating.

Maybe it’s my stage of life. Is there something about being a 30-something woman that has tasted enough of the possibilities that ultimately I feel like I’m settling, rather than settling down? I’ve spent the last several years dreaming of stability. Now that I’ve got it, I dream of change. 

I probably ought to cut myself some slack. This is likely a result of being this tricky thing called… human. The grass is always greener and all that. I think there’s also something to be said about how the dominant cultural narrative in the US is about achievement, ladder-climbing, exceptionalist treatment, and finding the best in every category. It is simply in my DNA to approach my life this way. To be rested and content goes against nearly every explicit and implicit message I receive by the world around me. 

I think the best gift I can give myself (see, there it is! “the best”) is to apply therapeutic wisdom; I can notice these tendencies and feelings without judgment. I can wonder about them. I can sit with them. I need not try to change them. I can resist the binary messages I give myself that I am either content or I am not. I can be at home and I can wander. 

My definition of home keeps expanding and I wonder if I’ll ever find enough words to explore its vast meaning. Home is a place and a state of mind and a sacred experience and a beautiful relationship and an inspiring painting and a meaningful community and a reliable shelter and a predictable routine and a place of soulful rest. Home is a physical address. Home is also a spiritual practice I can cultivate, thus it is available to me anywhere.

Perhaps I can apply Madeleine L’Engle’s wisdom here, too. She said that she is at once every age she ever has been. Could it be true that a sense of home within is cultivated by every home-ful place I’ve known in my past? What of those places and feelings can I see within myself even now?

In light of all these wonderings, I’m giving myself two anti-resolutions:

• I won’t shame myself for wondering and wondering

• I won’t strive for perfection before I bring my thoughts and ideas to light

I don’t know yet what’s next here, and I think I’m finally willing to say that’s ok. I want to write. That’s good enough for now.

I’m curious: what’s been home to you this summer? And what’s on your anti-resolution list?

---

May you know a sense of home within yourself this week. May you give yourself permission to blend the categories.

Thanks for reading,
Janette