Welcome Home

Standard

So, we are home.

Mind you, it took a long while before I could call this house ‘home.’  Home was not Raleigh, North Carolina, but Sharon, Massachusetts, where we had lived for almost thirty years. Home was near the lake where our boys had swum and sailed, near friends with whom I had shared every nuance of life.

Yet, here we were in the south and in a new house, a house where each room echoed my own loneliness and where the Carolina moon, shining through tall, unfamiliar Carolina pines, looked pale and doubtfully down on us all.

Bloom where you are planted; home is where the heart is. Though these aphorisms are all very well and good, they do not heal a homesick heart. But the tide of life sweeps on and takes us with it… sink or swim, it is up to us.

When does a house become a home? The process is slow, incremental, cumulative. There may be a family gathering, a visit from old friends. There could be a birth with all the joy and discovery that a new life brings. There could come new friends, good friends, who gather to rejoice, to help, to bring laughter into the mix. And there will be memories sweet and bittersweet, for here is the room that was my mother’s while she lived with us, and the vases which she used to fill with flowers. And in this room, later, came baby Kate’s small crib and her toys. And there, in the sun-splashed living room where Kate sometimes does her homework now, our grandson Ben once took his first baby steps. And, look, there… there is where little Alex and I played when she was only a year old.

But it is not only the past that warms this house and makes it ours, for the present and the future are busy, too. Spread in a jumble on the kitchen table are recipes for next Thursday, when my quilt group comes to lunch, a reminder that I am to bake a pie for our next family gathering, and a colorful travel brochure hinting at our next adventure. On the computer upstairs in my work room is a schedule of books to be read by my Sharon book club. And on the floor are spread the multifarious fabrics for my latest project.

Home is where memories live and where hopes for the present gather close to dreams for the future. And it is this complex weave of light and shadow, of growth and loss and love and anticipation that come to meet us at the door to welcome us home.

Advertisements

About Maureen C. Wartski

I’m Maureen Wartski, writer, artist, wife, mother, grandmother; you can see that I have many of the bases covered. I was born in Ashiya, Japan, a (then) small town which lay cradled between sea and mountains. In the evenings, we would walk along the road that ran past Osaka Bay, and a great moon would rise out of the water to turn the world to silver. I’m told that my first words were, “Big moon!” All my life I have felt the tug to write something, draw something, put together something with fabric, string and color, and the urge to create has grown through the years. I suppose, then, that it’s a natural thing that this blog be full of the things that so many of you enjoy doing…drawing, making something with fabric, and writing. Yuri's Brush with Magic, my newest book for middle schoolers follows the adventures of a brother and sister, the magic of words, and the incredible magic of the natural world. I'd love to hear from you! You can send me a note at: maureen@wartski.org/ My blog is here: https://maureenwartski.wordpress.com/ Or friend me on Facebook!

2 responses »

  1. Maureen,

    Your post reminded that we can “not be at home” in other situations as well. Perhaps we don’t feel comfortable in a social gathering, with a family member, or in our jobs. What a nice mental simile that painted for me.

    I am so glad you are now living in NC and it has become home for you. I doubt I would have met you in another location and I’m I like knowing you!

    I am curious. What is the lovely flower trained on the fence?

  2. Thank you indeed, Linda. Home wouldn’t be ‘home’ without friends!
    The bush is my wigelia… it isn’t doing very well this year, I’m afraid. I think the overcold winter and the overhot summer has caused it to have a nervous breakdown. Hopefully, it will survive…

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s