July 26, 2002

All Growed Up/Passing It On

My afternoon just blissfully freed up. And while I still can't go home and do what I really want to do (which is read some more of "At Home in Mitford" by Jan Karon, and try *not* to immediately sign on to Amazon and hook myself up with the remaining six books in the series), I can at least relax for a minute after a stressful week, and write a bit about what is on my mind.

I very much enjoy the atmosphere at our house as of late. While it's far from where I'd geographically prefer to be (which, according to this is Whidbey Island in Washington - and thanks to Sarah for the link), it's clean when it's not messy, quiet when it's not chaotic, and situated a pebble's toss away from excellent restaurants, theaters, shopping, and most importantly, work (let's hear it for no commute!). We've had a bunch of friends in and out over the past few weeks. We very much enjoy having folks over for dinner and conversation, a game of pool, or a soak in the hot tub. Once we actually do something with the back yard, I'll even be able to satisfy my yen to spend more time outdoors.

It's a pleasant place to be; though it's not perfect, I still find it a little bit wrenching to have to leave it in the morning. It's comfortable, and I tend to want to bask in comfort. Very much as of late, my nest-making tendency has been out in full force.

I've just turned 28, and while I feel absolutely NO different inside my head than when I was 16, I am very much appreciating being a grown up. One with good friends, a loving partner, kids that I adore, and a job that gets more successful as time goes on. I have a (narrow) portfolio, and have no idea how I ended up with one. I dabble in the stock market without really knowing at all what I'm doing, though I do have a basic understanding. I got a divorce, and had a real lawyer, and went to actual court, and learned how to shoot a gun, and discovered how little a restraining order means. I have credit cards and all of a sudden I'm very interested in interest rates. I have a budget. And a car payment. And health insurance. And I have that most alien of things, a mortgage, that I actually refinanced not once, but *twice*, and did it all on my own.

Imagine that.

I sometimes have to remind myself that I got here by stages, and not, as it sometimes feels inside my head, all in an instant. There are occasional terrifying moments when I'm standing before a group of knowledgeable, experienced, educated individuals, and they're looking to *me* for my assessment, opinion, or analysis on integral programs - and I'm a sophomore in high school again who has just been called upon by the teacher to answer a question about last night's homework, and I didn't do the reading.

And there are other times when I've just spoken with Marie or Michael, and what they're going through is so fresh in my memory that I feel like I'm not qualified to give them advice or instruct them in any way. I just went through the same thing YESTERDAY and I still want someone to give the answers to *me*.

But, more often than not lately, I do have the answers. My education was perhaps hard won in comparison, but I believe that by that very nature, it's more valuable. At least to me.

I guess what I'm trying to get at here is that it feels *strange* to me that I am where I am. If I concentrate on it I can look back and see the steps that got me here, and now that I'm here I can freely admit that it was stressful, complicated, and rather indirect. There was probably a better way I could have gone about things. But I am here now, and during the journey I just kept my head down and plowed forward. Stuff just got done without me worrying about *how* it would get done - it just did. And I achieved goals without really knowing what they were, or setting them for myself.

God takes care of fools and little children. I'm convinced that I'm both.

*********************

Sometimes when I'm lying in bed, I close my eyes and convince myself that I'm in my old bedroom back at Grandma's. The bed is between the two windows - the one that looks over the back yard, and the one that looks across the driveway and over the neighbor's fields. The crickets are chirping and the frogs are singing in the pond, and the damned whippoorwill is keeping me up for the hundredth night in a row. I can make it so real that I can smell the scent freshly mown hay wafting in on the damp night air, and hear Grandma humming to herself from the kitchen as she cleans up after dinner. I'm almost surprised when I open my eyes and see the TV up in the corner, and the mirrored closet doors across from me, instead of my bedroom door, and where did all my horse posters go?

I'm realizing more and more that home is more than a house, it's a feeling inside my head. Calm, quiet, and stable. Full of delicious aromas and soft cheeks to kiss, contented humming and clean laundry. When someone says "home" to me, I immediately envision white eyelet curtains blowing in the breeze, and sunshine mellowing the hardwood floor, and chickadees trilling in the background. And Grandma asking me if I want something to eat.

Instead of having "home" provided to me, I'm now providing it for others. For Calvin, and Marie, and Michael. For my friends. I begin to understand *why* Grandma seemed so happy while I lived with her, and when I came home for visits. I feel that happiness inside of me, when everyone is home with me, when we're all together.

My Grandmother taught me that the outward, physical creation of the *feeling* of home that she felt inside her head - the one I feel inside mine - gifts your loved ones, children, and friends with a sense of home that they can carry with themselves, and in turn create for others. It's the ability to take that feeling and that memory - of clean sheets and comfortable nights in front of the TV, waking up in the morning to the smell of bacon, and running barefoot through the dew covered lawn - and return to it in the mind when the body cannot.

The most precious gift Grandma has given me is the memory of my childhood. Nearly all of my tales that begin with "I remember when I was little..." are fraught with deep rooted, solid and REAL images, feelings, textures, smells, tastes - the memories are tantamount to watching a all-sensory-inclusive movie. The detail can sometimes be amazing, and the triggers that instantaneously launch me to that place in time are numerous. Everything that I experienced, great and small, significant and insignificant, have created the whole concept of "home" to me, and will effect how I contribute to the feeling of "home" as it is developed in the kids.

Our entire lives are made up of "I remember when's". Someday Marie and Michael will reminisce with Calvin and I about the sense of home that we created for them - the Christmases, the school events, the everyday routines, the favorite meals, the inside jokes, the vacations. And they'll remember simple little gestures, that Calvin and I didn't realize made such an impact on them at the time (the ones Grandma did that I never told her impacted *me*), but that they remembered and carried with them. The things that created the feeling of home to them, in their minds, that they'll try to manifest to their children.

So really, even though they only met once, Grandma has given Michael and Marie the same gift she gave to me, *through* me. And if Calvin and I ever have children of our own, they will be brought up knowing that same sense of peace, security, and love that I was brought up in. And they'll pass that to their children, who will pass that to their children...

Grandma's influence will go on forever. I can't begin to tell you how cool that is.

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©Laura Charon 2000 - 2002.