Home
Home should be a refuge, that place you return to for shelter from the wild world, whether that be from the wind and the rain or instead, the demands of the phone and the laptop.
Arriving, settling; that sudden switch off from the world, the familiarity of those that you know so well; with whom you share hugs and wine or kisses and evening curries or for that matter, those whose teddies you find again or those whose dog food you put out each day. That is where peace arrives, where the comfort of the couch, the dim presence of the telly, the whir of the washing machine all gathers for that drawn out
“I am home and I am safe and in a moment I might have a whisky and I might go upstairs for a shower and come back downstairs in my jammies.”
I love that feeling. I love the prospect of sleeping in the same building as those I love; maybe hearing the rooks settling as the day dims and later the owls screeching among the trees and me, in my bed, knowing I will wake unreasonably early but not beset by the terrors of thoughts that once I knew I could not escape.
But of course that haven and that sanctuary is not always the safe, warm place where you listen to the sound of the gale outside. Sometimes the wind and the rain and the brute force of the world intrudes. As you take off your shoes you notice a silence, the lack of a welcome hello and remember that time before you left for work. The uneasy quiet and the tight lips and the memory of upended tables and food all over the floor. You remember that night the floor became your bed, the bin the place your possessions were thrown away to be doused by the ashes of last nights fire. You remember that cold aching place in your tummy where what you had thought was a wonderful evening is instead replaced by accusation and you do not know: you do not know what it is you have done and cannot comprehend why the house has now turned cold and windy and hostile. That not knowing is worse almost than the punches or the swearing or the kicking. It seems to come from nowhere and nothing you do can stop it; however much you apologise, however much you seek to understand; there is no forgiveness.
People talk of their body in terms of their home too. You inhabit your body and maybe even more so, you inhabit your mind.
I do not like my body. I hate how it can no longer climb hills and would not even be able to climb out of the sea into a dinghy. I hate that my belly sticks out of the bottom of my now, too tight and too short shirts. Despite that, so far it has not let me down much. It copes with the abuse I put it through. I have been unreasonably lucky. I remember I used to go for long runs with people in training and, as I ran, I would talk and suck on my cigarette. I have been lucky enough to swim in huge exhilarating waves with no fear of the undertow and lucky enough to slide inelegantly on skies down runs my family swooped gracefully down. Once long, long, ago, I was fluid; climbing cliffs with an ease that brought crowds of adult climbers to stand at the bottom watching me.
If I was more at ease with my mind, maybe I would treat my body better, maybe the whisky glass would become a rare sight, and the late night sandwiches or crisps not creep into my thoughts. I would like to say something wise about that mind of mine but am too young to do so. It believes things it would be much happier not believing. It hides me from my own emotions. It makes me feel unutterably guilty for the wonderful life I now have and the wonderful family I grew up with. If I poked it with a twig I worry it would roar and the twig burst into flames or failing that, that instead it would collapse weeping for I know not what at all, on the floor.
I do not know if I was wounded by the world or by people. I don’t think I was particularly, though it is comforting to say the outside did it to me. Maybe it is just how I am; what I am; maybe it is just rickety and the drugs sooth those tired cogs.
I am not sure I want to know any more. I have a craving, even though I am now far older than a young version of me ever thought I was capable of being. I have a craving to really bask in the joy of the world when Wendy greets me with a kiss in the morning, sleepy in her dressing gown. Or to put my phone away when Charlotte tells me off for paying no attention to the family in the evening, or to reply
“Woof woof!”
Very happily when James barks his thanks for his pizza in his room. To giggle with my Mum when she says;
“You never listen to me!” and laughs out loud.
To agree wholeheartedly when Keri says everyone needs a Wendy in their life and then work out how to become Wendy’s Wendy!! I think maybe that if I try hard and listen I might slowly wake up; slowly understand I have always been loved and that one day, maybe not too distantly, I will forgo the whisky to drive instead, with the dog to Ardmore to watch the sunset with the seals, the herons and the cormorants on the rocks.
And then maybe I will truly know the meaning of home.
(Photos: our kitchen august 2022)
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