Homefulness

Nothing brings to mind homefulness quite as much as being a welcome visitor in the homes of people we love. 

  

I could name everyone reading this  right now (those of you who have invited me into your house for beans and cornbread, or elaborate recipes that take all day to make, or a half-glass of wine on the porch.) The flavors inside someone else's kitchen, the welcoming smells of soup and bread: is that Heaven or what?

I rarely need to sleep in anyone's guest room in San Antonio, having a bed of my own there, but when traveling or visiting a friend, it's a treat to sleep in guest rooms, unencumbered by the weight of to-do's at home. Waking up to the sounds of people stirring in the kitchen, the indecipherable words downstairs that sound like sleepy hums announcing the new day is waking up? Conversations about the art other people choose, a framed portrait of a grandmother, the plants in the yard, the various pets--all the conversations that take more time than those in coffee shops, sometimes late into the night. 

If I were to name names, I might err on the side of making this post too long--because everyone reading this has been a sister-traveler or a giver of hospitality.  But I could name names. 

I could tell you about a visit in a friend's second home in Connecticut, walks on the beach, sleeping in a bedroom bigger than my whole house, and feeling so cozily at home.  I could tell you about my Cape Cod friend who has  invited friends over to celebrate my visit, and best of all, gives her so-fortunate guests wonderful candle-lit massages in a blue upstairs guest room. 

When I recently complained to a friend back home--that I need extensive dental surgery but left my house in mid-remodeling stage because I thought I'd be back in a couple of weeks--she said, "You can stay at my house!  If my grandson is in the guest room, we can kick him out!" Another friend, heading soon to Vermont for two months, offered me her whole house!

My remodeling man meant well; he promised that when I come home, it would be like one of those programs on HGTV (when the homeowner leaves for a week and comes back to a total gasp-worthy transformation) 

But he got sick and was unable to finish.  Right now, my home is just sitting there with a bunch of new windows, the furniture still covered in protective sheets to keep everything clean during the messy finishing up. Right now, I'm more worried about his health than the house.  

Then a casual dental appointment revealed the need for shock-worthy dental work.  My remodeling friend and I have been texting back and forth about his illness and my teeth, and there's nothing to be done about either right this minute.  

I'm lucky in that I have a back up house, the casita, for sleeping and recovering, if I have the surgery at home.  I'm so fortunate to have this spacious house and yard (Carlene calls it "our house") to relax in for as long as I need it if I have the surgery here.  

I feel rich in friends and family who could and would take me in if needed--just as my casita would be there for them if the tables were turned. I've already had my new next door neighbor--a Palestinian woman who owns a restaurant--offer to make me soup and soft foods.  

Homefulness (a word I just coined that auto-correct wants to change to "hopefulness") is the best possible way to feel when your body or soul or mind is vulnerable.  To feel welcome to share another's house--an extension of that person--is, in my opinion, better than any medicine.

Or, as Frost wrote in his poem, "The Death of the Hired Man"---

Home is the place where, when you have to go there,

They have to take you in....

I'm likely to stay here--not the house filled with childhood history as the Cochran house was, but overflowing with memories of all the decades between my first leavings (for college, then a year later for Texas) and now.  I know where all the light switches are, I can still play the piano they bought when I was in third grade, and Luci loves tracking critters in the big yard. In my memory, all of us, all our younger selves, are still present around the big round table. 

This is where all the babies and then children and then grown-up children remember so many Christmases and summer vacations.  It's where my dad napped in this blue lounge chair I'm sitting in now.  It's where bad news bruised us to the core and good news was doubled and tripled and more--by sharing. 

At this moment, awake and writing in the middle of the night, I feel settled in here, yet also so connected to my friends back home.  

I'm also resolved, when I go back to my own house, to start making soup and cornbread and inviting friends over.  I don't have to do gourmet.  The house doesn't have to be perfect (it can be like me--messy and incomplete).  

This is my homage to homefulness and my gratitude for all the hospitality and love I've felt from each of you!