Prompt #5

Story bingo-ish.

Make a grid, like a bingo sheet.

List vertically: people, place, plot, strange element, tone.

Horizontally: me, family/friend, movie/book, news.

Write in the grid basic information that corresponds with the x and y axis.

Cut the squares.

Pick one of each piece.

You have the bones for four stories.

Flesh out one story and post it.

My Home is in my Head

I spent years hating that saying. My self-possessed ex-husband had a T-shirt bearing that quote and Bob Marley's mug. I resented him every time he wore it. I was so jealous.

In college, I had to write a paper on Loren Eisley's essay, The Brown Wasps, linked below:

http://members.tripod.com/nature_writer/Naturalist/eiseley.htm

My mom had just died, and the idea of home haunted me. My home was where my mom was. I struggled for the next 16 years to create a home for myself, in marriage where I never really felt accepted being myself. I often felt like an alien species, living with my husband and sons. I blamed my femaleness, but I felt like a fish our of water with my female friends, too.

This summer, I got an apartment. While I was waiting for it, I moved in temporarily with my boyfriend, and I never really moved out. I live in both places, enjoying my time and role in both homes, feeling completely centered and at peace. I think I should feel transient, but I don't. I think the tshirt wouldn't bother me anymore. Maybe I'll get myself one.

Ruminating on this prompt, one song stayed with me, Simon and Garfunkel's Home:

Home, where my thoughts escape me,
Home, where the music's playing,
Home, where my love lies waiting silently for me.

Mama, I'm home.

The Song Goes On

Response to Prompt #4

The Song Goes On

by Helen Sadler

After tossing out many ideas of how to address this prompt, I finally knew I just had let the idea come to me. I decided the best thing to do was just listen.

Earlier this week I woke from some intense dreaming and was hearing the song “You Can Close Your Eyes” by James Taylor playing in my head.  My first thought: this is my catalyst. I didn’t have any idea at the time what it could possibly be. After all, the word “home” doesn’t even appear in the song.

Yesterday I listened to several versions on YouTube and began to think, well, maybe this isn’t it.  No connection to the actual singing of the song.

But today, once more I felt the urging, so I looked at the lyrics. I could “see” the possibilities then; I could hear the ending. So here I am at my computer typing away, getting to the actual point of this whole thing…something that is going to happen now, spontaneously, in the moment. It is the trust in the home of my writing circle that has led me to this point. So perhaps home in this case is partially about finding home with like-minded friends in the writing dream  -- our partnership. But, there is more. Here it is.

Well the sun is surely sinking down
But the moon is slowly rising

They sit together on the lanai. Over thirty years of sitting together, casually talking. Sunrises, sunsets, moon rises, storms, darkness.

And this old world must still be spinning 'round
And I still love you

Never any doubt, from that first day at the park in the snow. Never any doubt this was real love.

So close your eyes
You can close your eyes, it's all right

We are witnesses of each others’ lives. We are sustained and bolstered by this knowledge. We are comfortable enough to close our eyes. It is safe there, home inside this marvelous feeling. This solid, strong, unyielding feeling.

I don't know no love songs
And I can't sing the blues anymore
But I can sing this song
And you can sing this song
When I'm gone

We have sung all the genres of songs to be sung. We hum together, sing loudly together, harmonize, and back each other up. No one leads. No one follows. It is just music, pure and constant.

Well it won't be long before another day
We're gonna have a good time
And no one's gonna take that time away
You can stay as long as you like

We have lived long enough to have every kind of good time possible. We have lived long enough to know that it can get taken away. This is why our home has to be more than the physical body.

So close your eyes
You can close your eyes, it's all right

When one of us closes our eyes for the last time, it’s all right. The safety lies beyond.

I don't know no love songs
And I can't sing the blues anymore

But I can sing this song
And you can sing this song
When I’m gone

The gift of home is in the song.

No matter our proximity, this does not change.

No matter our distance, the song will go on.

12:09 P.M.  10/4/15                 Song lyrics copyright James Taylor

The Place I Call Home by Annmarie Ferry

Response to Invitation to Write #4.  Admittedly, I thought this prompt would be a piece of cake but found myself stuck.  With so many directions to go, I lacked a clear focus. Then, it dawned on me to ask my kids how they saw home. This was both brilliant and brave. These people tell it like it is.  I texted them so they wouldn't have to choke on tears trying to verbalize what home means to them.  I braced for the responses but was completely unprepared for what came across my screen over the next two days. 

Home.

Say the word repeatedly, and it becomes a chant, a prayer.

Home.

Feel the word:

the rush of breath when you vocalize the "h,"
the guttural "o" softening as it blends with the surrounding consonants,
the vibration of the "m" tickling your lips as it escapes.

Home.

For some, home conjures up memories of polished silver clinking against fine china, crystal goblets ringing out as a holiday toast is made.

For others, it is a backyard BBQ, paper plates in wicker holders, plastic forks and knives that snap under the pressure of sawing through grilled meat, Solo cups being raised in celebration.

For too many, home summons feelings of distress, physical and mental pain, a place wired with nervousness and fear.

It has always been important for me to have a comfortable home.  One where anyone who steps through the threshold feels welcomed and relaxed. I don't own one piece of china, crystal or silver, but I will serve you on big stoneware plates with modern flatware. You'll drink from a glass, but don't worry if you break it; it wasn't expensive.  Go ahead and lounge on the furniture, put your feet up, it's all made for living.  You may notice some spots I missed when cleaning, but everything is sanitary.

Home is a comfortable place.

Home is not a perfect place.

Home  is filled with four uniquely flawed and wonderful people. And, just like the people, the house itself has its flaws. Things break, sometimes in quick succession. When they do, we fix them, restoring them to a workable condition.

We do the same for each other.

I wasn't sure I had accomplished exactly what I had always wanted in a home, but after reading my kids' responses, I know I have:

A safe haven from the outside world.
A place I can actually be myself without feeling judged.
A place where failure is not an option and where I am pushed to be the best version of me. 
A place where my needs are met, physically and emotionally.
A place where we celebrate accomplishments, even little ones.
A place I can vent and get a shoulder to cry on if needed.
It's where my role models live. 

I haven't always been a perfect mom, a perfect spouse, a perfect friend.

I haven't always accomplished everything I wanted to do.

But this? This is enough to get me through. Every time I question myself, doubt myself, I will return to this.  Now I know that we built the home we always wanted, brick by brick, sometimes bracing for the weight of it all to crush us, but always managing to keep the fortress standing, never yielding to outside forces that wish to destroy us.

Home is not perfect, but it is safe, accepting, and authentic.

And, that's all I've ever wanted.