Before the guests arrive

Before the guests arrive there is always motion, a blur of washing linens and tucking in sheets, scrubbing tile with solvents, the airing of rooms and the burning of scents. There are last minute trips to the fish market and wine store and pie shop, the chopping of firewood and dusting off chairs. What breakables stay out for display and which get shut away get considered, while topics of conversation, safe or to be avoided, are discussed. There are cuttings of flowers and placing of lemons in fruit bowls, the setting of bread to rise on the counter. Gnats are caught in traps. Then it's time to stack the books and fluff the cushions, stuff items in closets, watch nerves and tempers flair. Rushed noses get powdered. Babes wiped clean. And finally, when the guests pull into the drive, there is the inevitable sweeping of wayward crumbs under the rug.

Walking meditations

Photo by Charles Smith

There's the kind of mediation that looks like sitting still, in a quieted and sunlit room, eyes closed, mind empty, where peace and serenity fall from on high. 

And then there's the kind that happens while moving, walking through solitary streets at night, thinking many thoughts with a busy mind, setting your soul out to wander towards a destination or not, where peace and serenity are gathered like daisies and found with purpose in the boulevard.

I prefer the latter when possible, finding myself on certain days (inexplicable when they arrive—it could just as easily be in the snow packed winter as the dog days of summer) that I cannot fathom putting my body underground to catch the subway or into a stuffy, moving box just to sit in traffic. And so if I have the time, and sometimes when I don't, if I have comfortable shoes and energy to burn, I walk. For the exercise, solitude, the meditative properties, and for the ability to both listen and receive.

Not my home

How does one know when you belong to a place?

Is it a feeling like love? Does it come in a rush, a flush of recognition, like the first time you lock eyes with your soul?

Or is it a more growing affection, subtle and sneaky, so that when you wake up one day you feel like you're whole?

Were you born with this feeling? Did you inherit this earth? Does a sense of it pull you back like a tide?

Or are you tethered to it, a burden, by obligations, blood, and time?

Maybe it's nostalgia that grows and keeps you, like moss on a tree. Or perhaps it's just the place you landed, after floating adrift on the sea.

Perhaps you're home changes season to season, this year's nest to roost. You'll move to where the grass is greener, but hang your hat under a temporary roof.

Maybe it's the feeling of kinship you need, attachment to your flock. Or the landscape itself that possesses your skin, your bones, your teeth—the mountain to your rock.

For some home is no place at all, but simply where they build their fire. Because warmth doesn't need need a hearth of brick and stone, it's not just where we retire.

It's where familiarity and family breed belonging, and time builds trust. A place can change you like love does, or simply kick you out if it must.

It's tough to say what it is about a setting that becomes part of you, but what I know, is that while you figure it out—it often becomes so.