The Richness of Home
A home can be many things. Mine is comfortable and familiar; it’s where I can let my hair down and put my feet up. During this Covid-19 era, so full of uncertainty, fears, and mandated restrictions, I’ve gained a fresh appreciation of the home I’ve shared with Hubby Darling for 15 years. It’s nothing fancy—a rectangular box, solidly built in the 1940’s—but it provides shelter, security, and so much more. Cocooning at home, I’ve missed out on pleasures like indoor visits with friends, concerts and classes, travel—but with far less coming and going, the possibilities, resources, and springboards to creativity right here at home have come into focus.
Webster’s New International Dictionary (Unabridged, 1935) definitions of rich includes “abounding in superior, pleasing, or effective qualities… productive, fertile, fruitful, ample.” Other synonyms spring to mind: abundant, plentiful, varied, of high value. Enough’s a feast, home ownership’s a privilege, and there’s plenty within these four sturdy walls.
Like what? Let’s start with books. I love books, and Hubby Darling does too. We have lots of books. They fill bookcases, stack up on tables, tempt me from shelves or crannies in every room. Within easy reach are novels, books on art, herbs and gardening, birds, nature, Pacific Northwest and Seattle history, Native Americans, spirituality, kids’ books and more. Such riches!
My office, aka writing studio, contains many books and papers, also a desk and tables, writing supplies, a CD player so old it has a tape deck, and a vintage card catalog full of miscellaneous items. Here I can shut the doors and turn inward, reflect, consider my priorities, and plan. Here I can set the timer, put on earphones when needed, and satisfy the inner need I’ve felt since childhood to WRITE. During Covid I finished my first novel and moved on to essays, newspaper articles, blog posts, and other short pieces. Here, the life of the mind is paramount.
Projects. My brother once asked, “Mary, do you still have lots of projects like when you were a kid?” Yes, always. My to-do lists perpetually overflow with things I must, should, can, or want to do. I’ll never get to them all. This home is packed with materials for projects galore. To name a few: home repair and decor, sewing and mending, crafting painted rocks, mosaic stepping stones… Shall I confess to mess? My life’s impossible dream is to be well organized, strictly disciplined and all that, but in reality I’m faced with clutter, overabundance, and disorder. I definitely need to sort, purge, and simplify—which of course are projects in themselves.
Outside, there’s the garden. Oh yes, my garden. A friend’s hand crafted sign recommends, “Work Less, Garden More.” I call it “playing” in my garden. It’s my playground, refuge, and source of sanity year round. The soil, once sandy and quick draining, has grown rich and crumbly after years of organic additions and amendments, especially after my experiments with the regenerative methods Elizabeth Murphy describes in “Growing Soil” (growingsoil.com). Now it teems with life. Herbs, flowers, and vegetables in season are steps away, along with the deep satisfaction of sowing seeds and nurturing plants, of harvesting and sharing. A backyard plum tree provides not only luscious fruit, but opportunities—for kids to climb, for food bank donations, for sharing with neighbors up and down the block. In return we receive happy smiles, thank-you notes, buttery plum cake and other treats. Best of all, we reap the sense of belonging to a community. The garden is also rich in imagery and metaphors for human life, since we are inextricably rooted and dependent on the cycles of nature. Mysteries, miracles, the world in a grain of sand—it’s all there. How can I not gain perspective and attunement with living, growing things as I kneel in my garden with holy Mother Earth in my hands?
For people like me whose “love language” is food, the kitchen is the heart of the home. I like mine homey, well stocked, and filled with welcoming aromas from cinnamon-spiced apples in the oven, or a big pot September Harvest Soup made with our home grown vegetables, simmering on the stove. My kitchen is decorated with colorful paintings and prints, plus folk art treasures including a delightfully cracked Turkish plate, an heirloom rosemaling bowl from my aunt in Norway, and a hand carved wooden syringi I bought many years ago in Kabul, from a man who played it to demonstrate its tinny tone. A dozen favorite cookbooks offer inspiration, including my first published book, “The Leek Cookbook,” and my third, “The Herb Lover’s Handbook;” I still turn to both for some excellent recipes. Cooking implements include the wooden spoon, handmade in junior high wood shop by a boy named Dale, a treasured gift from the days our lives intertwined long ago. Dale, wherever you are, I will never forget you and your family.
Ah, that’s what happens. Personal history lives within these walls. That wooden spoon and other memorabilia, like old letters, photos, recipes, and documents, are treasures of the heart that unlock memories. The richness of life experience is all here, in secret code. For me, this home’s essence and richness lie in the possibilities, memories, and emotions it holds. It’s the place where, without question or doubt, I belong.