Clicking of Heels

[catelin]

I’ve been in a swirl of things lately that have had me reevaluating the way I live. This is not necessarily a bad thing. It’s good to take a look at everything once in a while and ask myself if I am where I want to be. My life here is so completely comfortable to me that it’s often a shock to realize that the people who come and go through the little house do not see it as the same refuge it is to me. I live out in the middle of nowhere really, about 20 miles from the nearest town of any size. I have two kids, two outside cats, three inside cats (soon to be two, as my oldest is still hanging in there but probably not long for this world), three dogs, and a bunch of deer that show up on my doorstep every morning for breakfast. I have a plot of land down the road, a fountain with a small goldfish pond, gardens that always need tending, paintings and various other projects in various stages of completion. My house is small but cozy, with crazy painted walls and artwork from people I love hanging in just about every spare corner. My windowsills are large and full of plants and souvenirs from the life I have lived so far—all an odd assortment of knickknacks that have their own stories. I share this place with people as they come into my life, whether friends or lovers; but it is always so very much mine, perhaps too much so for anyone to really feel like there is a permanent place for them here. The possibility of leaving or making any significant changes to the way I live is remote. There are days that the nomad in me feels a bit trapped by this, days when the responsibility seems much more a curse than a blessing. For someone who spent such a long time being able to leave places at the drop of a hat with no worries about who would watch the kids or feed the animals, the logistics of getting away can be difficult at best. I chafe at the ties sometimes, wishing for other places and things. Ultimately, I always come to the same conclusion…that I love my home. I love the way the tile floor feels on my feet, I love the way the sun comes in through my curtains, I love the way the house resonates with all the energy of life with my boys and my menagerie. I am as connected to this place as I probably will ever be to anything. So while offers of a different life in a different place might be appealing on any given day, the truth is I wouldn’t leave this place again even if I could. Time and children leaving the nest may change that for me, but this is where I want to be now. As with anything, the choices we make for ourselves always have consequences. My choice to stay here in the little house may dictate the path that my relationships will take; my obligations to my children and my home are always paramount to anything else. This leaves the brave souls who dare to love me traveling out to the middle of nowhere to find me—sometimes this makes me happy, other times it makes me guilty for being so necessarily selfish. My wish for someone to want to stay and never leave would probably evaporate once the decision was made to do so. I am always practical about my impracticality. If there is any one thing that my home and my life have given me, it is freedom from the yoke of expectations. I live without them to a large extent, because the home I have created allows us that luxury. It allows us room to unfold and be however it is we need to be. So at the heart of all the swirling about, I reach the same conclusion each time—this is my home and, with all its quirks and comforts, there really is no other place like it.