Notes On Home
My entire life I’ve been searching for home. A place that feels like home, a person that feels like home. And I’ve never quite found that. Here and there I’ve caught glimpses of it but finding that place where I belong and where I just... fit... that’s never quite happened. I told my mom a couple of years ago that growing up, I always felt like “the weird kid” (I was a weird kid) but I’d always figured that that feeling would go away once I hit adulthood. Here I am at 25 and I still feel like the weird kid. I’ve learned to embrace that. I’m quirky and I’m proud. But that feeling of wanting to find “home” has never gone away. Even the weirdest and quirkiest of us want somewhere they belong I think.
I’ve moved a lot through my life. Putting down roots has always been difficult for me. I’ve always said that “Home is where your butt is.” Wherever I was sitting at that moment was as close to home as I’d ever gotten.
This evening, I was sitting on my counter, eating too much pasta, lamenting my singleness (see my previous blog post,) and listening to Art Garfunkel’s Waters of March on repeat on my record player (I’m really good at dropping the needle right where the song begins) when this overwhelming feeling of contentment washed over me. Like when you’ve just watched a really good, heart-warming movie and the credits roll and a really good song starts playing and the characters just go about their lives behind the rolling credits...
I’ve been in my house for nearly a year now and I’ve loved every minute of it but I think the idea of it being home finally hit me. This is a place that is fully 100% mine. I bought it. I’m paying for it. It’s completely filled with me. It’s got my quirky touches all over it. It’s filled with pictures of David Bowie, my paintings, my garden gnomes, my cat, my typewriter, the odd knick-nacks I’ve picked up over the years... It’s more mine than anything has ever been. The only people who are welcomed into it are the people that I love irrevocably and who irrevocably love me. And they are welcomed in ways that are uniquely me; with good food (and sometimes failed recipes), homemade cookies, my unique taste in music...
This is a place where I can be unequivocally, unashamedly me. A place where I am 100% accepted for exactly who I am. A place where I fit, even if it’s a place I’ve created for myself. I no longer feel like a vagrant in my own life. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll never lose my love of travel and adventure, but having a place to call homebase is exactly what I need right now. I’ve spent 25 years looking for this exact spot to plant my butt, here on the counter of my kitchen, eating too much pasta, and listening to Art Garfunkel’s Waters of March on repeat.
A stick, a stone, it's the end of the road,
It's the rest of a stump, it's a little alone,
It's a sliver of glass, it is life, it's the sun,
It is night, it is death, it's a trap, it's a gun.
The oak when it blooms, a fox in the brush,
The nod of the wood, the song of a thrush,
The wood of the wing, a cliff, a fall,
A scratch, a lump, it is nothing at all.
It's the wind blowing free, it's the end of a slope,
It's a bean, it's a void, it's a hunch, it's a hope.
And the riverbank talks of the Waters of March,
It's the end of the strain, it's the joy in your heart.
The foot, the ground, the flesh and the bone,
The beat of the road, a sling-shot stone,
A truckload of bricks in the soft morning light,
The shot of a gun in the dead of the night.
A mile, a must, a thrust, a bump,
It's a girl, it's a rhyme, it's a cold, it's the mumps.
The plan of the house, the body in bed,
And the car that got stuck, it's the mud, it's the mud.
Afloat, adrift, a flight, a wing,
A cock, a quail, the promise of spring.
And the riverbank talks of the Waters of March,
It's the promise of life, it's the joy in your heart.
A point, a grain, a bee, a bite,
A blink, a buzzard, a sudden stroke of night,
A pin, a needle, a sting, a pain,
A snail, a riddle, a wasp, a stain.
A snake, a stick, it is John, it is Joe,
A fish, a flash, a silvery glow.
And the riverbank talks of the Waters of March,
It's the promise of life in your heart, in your heart.
A stick, a stone, the end of the load,
The rest of a stump, a lonesome road.
A sliver of glass, a life, the sun,
A night, a death, the end of the run.
And the riverbank talks of the Waters of March,
It's the end of all strain, it's the joy in your heart.
I’ve moved a lot through my life. Putting down roots has always been difficult for me. I’ve always said that “Home is where your butt is.” Wherever I was sitting at that moment was as close to home as I’d ever gotten.
This evening, I was sitting on my counter, eating too much pasta, lamenting my singleness (see my previous blog post,) and listening to Art Garfunkel’s Waters of March on repeat on my record player (I’m really good at dropping the needle right where the song begins) when this overwhelming feeling of contentment washed over me. Like when you’ve just watched a really good, heart-warming movie and the credits roll and a really good song starts playing and the characters just go about their lives behind the rolling credits...
I’ve been in my house for nearly a year now and I’ve loved every minute of it but I think the idea of it being home finally hit me. This is a place that is fully 100% mine. I bought it. I’m paying for it. It’s completely filled with me. It’s got my quirky touches all over it. It’s filled with pictures of David Bowie, my paintings, my garden gnomes, my cat, my typewriter, the odd knick-nacks I’ve picked up over the years... It’s more mine than anything has ever been. The only people who are welcomed into it are the people that I love irrevocably and who irrevocably love me. And they are welcomed in ways that are uniquely me; with good food (and sometimes failed recipes), homemade cookies, my unique taste in music...
This is a place where I can be unequivocally, unashamedly me. A place where I am 100% accepted for exactly who I am. A place where I fit, even if it’s a place I’ve created for myself. I no longer feel like a vagrant in my own life. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll never lose my love of travel and adventure, but having a place to call homebase is exactly what I need right now. I’ve spent 25 years looking for this exact spot to plant my butt, here on the counter of my kitchen, eating too much pasta, and listening to Art Garfunkel’s Waters of March on repeat.
A stick, a stone, it's the end of the road,
It's the rest of a stump, it's a little alone,
It's a sliver of glass, it is life, it's the sun,
It is night, it is death, it's a trap, it's a gun.
The oak when it blooms, a fox in the brush,
The nod of the wood, the song of a thrush,
The wood of the wing, a cliff, a fall,
A scratch, a lump, it is nothing at all.
It's the wind blowing free, it's the end of a slope,
It's a bean, it's a void, it's a hunch, it's a hope.
And the riverbank talks of the Waters of March,
It's the end of the strain, it's the joy in your heart.
The foot, the ground, the flesh and the bone,
The beat of the road, a sling-shot stone,
A truckload of bricks in the soft morning light,
The shot of a gun in the dead of the night.
A mile, a must, a thrust, a bump,
It's a girl, it's a rhyme, it's a cold, it's the mumps.
The plan of the house, the body in bed,
And the car that got stuck, it's the mud, it's the mud.
Afloat, adrift, a flight, a wing,
A cock, a quail, the promise of spring.
And the riverbank talks of the Waters of March,
It's the promise of life, it's the joy in your heart.
A point, a grain, a bee, a bite,
A blink, a buzzard, a sudden stroke of night,
A pin, a needle, a sting, a pain,
A snail, a riddle, a wasp, a stain.
A snake, a stick, it is John, it is Joe,
A fish, a flash, a silvery glow.
And the riverbank talks of the Waters of March,
It's the promise of life in your heart, in your heart.
A stick, a stone, the end of the load,
The rest of a stump, a lonesome road.
A sliver of glass, a life, the sun,
A night, a death, the end of the run.
And the riverbank talks of the Waters of March,
It's the end of all strain, it's the joy in your heart.
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