Leaving Home

I just came in from gardening, where I sometimes find myself, in the presence of my mother. For my fiftieth birthday, my mother gave me money to build garden. She remained an enthusiastic gardener into her late nineties. Though somewhat bewildered by my horticultural creation, she always remained supportive, just as she always tried to be supportive of me.

I live in a big old house that has remained big and old. Every year it seems to get a little bit bigger and a little bit older, and a little bit fuller. There is so much work to be done that I am trying to  train myself to fully appreciate the house's many eccentricities and weaknesses, as well as my own. They bring so many surprises of joy. With difficulty I try to set aside the judgment of others, who have more conventional aspirations for the place and me.

It is here I learned to breath deeply, find peace, a sense of safety and belonging, in a community of other unique people on their singular adventures.

Last night, I drove my aging vehicle down the driveway, filled with so many this and thats from todays, future days and so many yesterdays. It will be some time, if ever, before I ramble up that driveway to a place I call home.

The last glimpse I see in the rear view mirror is that of the garden, with her wild appreciation of the summer past and a subdued anticipation of a winter rest ahead.