Healing, Home, and the Heart

We leave our lovely mountains today. We will return, but I don't think it will still be our home. I no longer know how to feel about this place that has been home for almost five years. And I don't know how to put in perspective the relationships we've built.

It's not that I don't value our friends in the mountains, it's just that I don't have the strength to completely open my heart to a whole new set of people. Nothing makes us more vulnerable than open hearts, and I don't think I can do justice to the emotional investments of any more folks. My heart is already bursting with the people now in it.

There's a phrase in the Bible, attributed to God, "I know mine, and mine know me." This is the ultimate in intimacy. When we open our hearts to others, we often need a group of intimate friends to hold onto us as we enter into love. Only then can we be sure of remaining ourselves, in addition to being at home in our blended selves. I want to spend my last years among the people who I know and who know me.

The phrase, " A friend is someone who knows all about you and loves you anyway." gives me great comfort as I age. Home is really where the heart is, and my heart must be completely open in order to feel at home. My people are part of who I am, and I am a part of my people. My people are those with whom I bond to be stronger together than we are without each other. That is what makes them mine.

I also want to exercise the strength Richard and I have gained, individually and as a couple, in being available those of our people who are vulnerable by virtue of opening their hearts and souls to marriage and children. We want to be with them in their trials and tribulations, as well as their celebrations.

Home is where the healing is. I don't have a lot of faith in anonymous psychology, religion, or self-help without those who know us and our history. We can't help each other heal wounds that we cannot, or will not, see. The deeper the wounds the more we need those who really know us and know where our wounds were formed.

Maybe my mountains will become a retreat where we come to simply rest and be.

Commitment and Compromise

I don't have the faith or forbearance to live off the land,
Even though I thought that, to do so, would be grand.
The butternut squash we stored has withered away,
And the seed potatoes are sprouting a vine array.
The five pounds of onions that we managed to harvest
Mostly have returned to compost in our forest.
We do have jams and pickled beets from our last garden,
But, to survive in the mountains, we'd have to become hardened.

It takes many years of practice and putting up stores,
And trading with neighbors across the mountain and next door.
Survival comes from battles with nature, hard fought,
And being careful of whatever our labors have wrought.
There is much faith and hope in better times to come;
This is all that is necessary for the contentment of some.
But the long winters are not good for those who brood
Or those that have trouble with controlling their moods.

The washer is now washing while my man runs to town
To dispose of the trash that many bury in the ground.
We recycle everything, including our kitchen refuse;
To do otherwise, we think, would be a serious abuse.
There are many delights in living this way of life,
But the survivalist's world is not without strife.
Making do as a way of life is an almost forgotten virtue
That is proficiently practiced by only a few.


Those with many years and generations on the mountain top
Have grown to accept and be grateful for whatever they've got.
They know who to trust, and who will cheat them;
They're not subject to trusting anyone on a whim.
They know better than to include away folks in their plans
Because when times get hard, we return to our clans.
I know this is true, and yet my man and me
Still cherish the friendship that they've offered for free.

We miss the simpler life when we are away;
I sometimes wish I could commit to stay.
But decisions made before I was born
Still conspire to mold my life's form.
Young folks still yearn for our physical presence
And passing on lessons is an elder's life's essence.
I pray that we find a comfortable compromise
For which our family, our friends, and my soul cries.

Valuing My Valentine

I didn't realize it was Valentine's Day until it was almost done;
I had been on the phone most of the morning, and then I was on the run
Packing and planning for our trip down south, while Richard put up sheet rock.
This method of celebrating our love may lead others to, our passion, mock.

I did get flowers from my sweetie, about a week ago;
He got ahead of the holiday, which made my heart fires glow.
He wanted to make certain that we had time to enjoy their bloom
Without having, in the trip down south, to make flower delivery room.

We could have had a candlelight dinner, if I had been able
To, under the painting supplies, find the kitchen table.
We have to find our romance in the little everyday things;
We can never predict the next twist that our marriage brings.

I did have a card to remind him that he's the love of my life,
And I did serve him a chili supper, like a dutiful and loving wife.
We're cleaning out the freezer; the chili was part of a bigger plan.
This is the way of life and love with my hard-working man.

Values for Family Life Conversation

A friend and I are starting an on-line "conversation" about where we obtain guidance in values for living our family and friendship lives. We're looking for a way to find commonality in the values of those of different faiths and community-centered value systems. We are not looking for sermons (on the mount, or otherwise). We are looking for personal experience.

Do you want to join the conversation?

From Wheels to the Waterfront

I now find myself packing to live in an apartment, that I've never seen, not much bigger than our RV. The biggest difference is that this living space is on the water, rather than on wheels. And we'll see the same piece of property every day. It's hard to know what one needs to leave and what to take on an open-ended adventure such as this. I didn't have this problem when we lived in the RV; all that we owned traveled with us.

I began with buying a two-slice toaster and a coffee maker at a thrift store; according to Richard the apartment kitchen is too tiny for a four-slicer. There is no tub, but I'm assured that there is a shower, so towels will still be in order. But what towels? Do I dare break up the matched sets for this house, now that I have most of our house in the holler looking casually coordinated? And where are my beach towels, now that I'll live close to the beach?

I guess we'll be looking at bare walls, as I'm sure that, upon leaving, there's a penalty for putty. At least I'll look out the window upon water, even though it's the marina, not the lake. Not a knick-knack will I take; any apartment too tiny for a four-slice toaster surely doesn't need decorative do-dads. I guess it won't be too bad not to have pictures of my people when I'll be seeing their faces in the flesh.

Without pots and pans, I clearly can't cook. But if I start creating a kitchen, where will that lead? I'll have two sets of everything from salt to cinnamon, and I'll have to move everything again when we get more settled, or in three months when the lease runs out. Maybe I could make do with a pressure cooker and a frying pan. Oh, but I can't cut without knives, and there's no stirring without spoons. Richard suggested that I bring the ingredients for three great buffet-worthy dishes, and rotate them for different occasions. I say that maybe we won't entertain; my friends just roll their eyes and say, "Yeah, right!"

My plan is to be living large (and growing large) with all the restaurant choices in the area. I'm sure that I can get us invited to use the kitchens of friends if I really want to whip up something homemade. I have several junior chefs who love to cook with me, so this could kill two birds with one stone: Lots of kid time and home cooking. What could be better than that?

The Painting Project

We'd been down in the sunny south for three months, off and on for Richard, consistently for me. There was an opening in the work schedule on the PT boat at the World war II Museum, when Richard's every day full-time attendance was thought to be discretionary. It was time to return to our rural roots for doctors' appointments and to finally paint the kitchen, which had been our winter doldrums plan all along.

When we got home to the holler, we had some surprises. Richard drove into the driveway and released our big bear of a Great Pyrenees back onto her patrol grounds, which she very enthusiastically ran through, banishing the several months build-up of beasties and ghoulies. He then unpacked his Bronco II, happily carrying his gear through the living room, down the hall, and into his office and our bedroom. It was so nice for him to be back in our familiar surroundings, until he entered the kitchen where he stepped into "squish."

The drain pan under the washing machine had clearly overflowed onto the kitchen floor. How could this have happened with us out of town, and knowing that no laundry was left washing as Richard had headed out the door? He looked high and low for the source of the swill, but couldn't find any obvious offenders. He even ran the washer, sure that the metal-clad hose must have burst, but found nothing. He called me with this news; now we were both mystified. He swabbed the deck, and decided to start the paint prep.

I had planned to have friends over to supper, but since the washer and dryer were now pulled to the middle of the kitchen, this clearly wasn't going to happen until the laundry closet was complete. I arrived the day after Richard, while he was at doctors' appointments for himself and Gypsy. My assignment was to remove all the items from the shelves over the washer and dryer. I happily puttered about rearranging our pantry cupboard and pitching lots of stale stuff, so as to make room for the overflow grocery items that had ended up in to laundry closet. I know, the board of health would have been appalled that we stored spaghetti next to stain remover, but that's recently remedied.

Upon his return from town, Richard began peeling off wall covering, and washing down walls. The next day, we agreed that I would clean up the mess while he went after more painting supplies. This is when it got really interesting. As I swept the floor, I saw some dark spots. I put my hand down and realized that the darkening was caused by wet wood. Not only this, but the floor was mushy. Richard's plan to paint the kitchen was now turned into one of his "infinite regression of steps" projects.

Before he can paint the kitchen, he has to paint the laundry closet. Before he can paint the ceiling and walls of the laundry closet, he has to rebuild the floor. Before he can rebuild the floor, he has to remove the soggy spots. Meanwhile, the PT boat builders are calling him back to duty. What's a woman to do when the "war effort" calls? Wherever this project stands, I'll release my Richard right after his last doctor's appointment on Thursday. As long as I have a working stove and sink, the painting can be put off.

On the up side of these surprises, I discovered that the leak was from a rubber washer that had become brittle...a cheap, easy fix. And the orchid that my daughter's family had given me four years ago, had not only survived my absence, but had once again begun to bloom.

Lilting Laughter and Lies

Laughter is something with different bents,
Depending on the message that is sent.
Just as tears are shed for many reasons,
Laughs are the signs of many seasons.
I know a woman who laughs at tragedy
She is simply built this way, you see.
It embarrasses her at funerals and such;
People may think she's been drinking too much.

My grandma and I laughed a lot, at many things
We often got baudy, when our stories took wings.
We could laugh at our diseases and laugh at death;
This was usually at her specific request.
This caused her to blush with embarrassment only when
We were caught in the act by my mother or her men.
I learned from this to choose carefully
Those, with whom, I let my emotions fly free.

There is sincere laughter that tends to heal;
There is also laughter that, as a weapon, we wield.
We must retrain our souls' ability to discern
The meanings behind signs of emotion we've learned.
A smile or a laugh can be meant to disarm,
Leading us to falsely believe we are meant no harm.
About the crying of tears, the same can be said;
Politicians and famous folks I've come to dread.

Laughter can be couched as friendship, when in fact,
It is a coward's way of launching an attack.
By opening souls with a show of shared mirth,
Many an hate-filled crowd has been given birth.
A smile may be used as a way to get close,
And find the weaknesses to exploit the most.
A tearful approach can soften the heart,
To use another's compassion,and rip them apart.

A sincere, sweet smile is not the same as a smirk;
The former is practiced by babies, the latter by jerks.
A smile or a tear when someone looks in our eyes
Helps us see if the emotion looks like truth or lies.
A laugh can be lilting, like that of a child,
Or a hearty admission that our plans have gone wild.
To laugh at another is often done to inflict pain;
This is not the way I wish new friendships to gain.

But to be among those who still have pure hearts,
And to share in the laughter that, from pure joy, starts;
To hold someone in tears and absorb some of their pain,
And to be with them as their spirits soar again;
To smile in the eyes of one without anger or jealousy,
And to feel this positive energy flowing back to me;
This is the form of friendship that I seek,
Affirmation that is given without having to speak.