I’ve lived on Askew Road for a little over 9 years. Until last week.
I thought I’d be so cool with it all. It’s time. The new house is beautiful. The real guy is there and our family. I know it will feel like home soon enough and one day I’ll not miss the house down the hill so much. But right now? I miss home.
It’s midnight. On a Monday/Tuesday. There was thunder and I didn’t get down the hill quick enough to stop the old dog running way. I have no idea how she gets out, but in blind panic dogs seem to be able to scale walls. The young dog was in a panic, but all the driving around and her howling and carrying on did not locate the old dog. I suspect the ranger will bring her home again tomorrow with a fine and she will be endlessly happy to be home. But it’s not home anymore. We are not here. Most of our stuff is not here. And it doesn’t feel like home here either.
I’m all a bit lost. All a bit in between. It’s askew.
I can’t decide what to do. The young dog is such a anxious thing she’ll cry wherever we are unless I’m there, doing something, and it’s midnight and I the only thing I intend to do is sleeping without a wet, anxious dog in my new bedroom (or my old bedroom for that matter). I’ll probably lock her inside the house in the bathroom with the Titanic playing loudly from the lounge room, so she thinks people are here for at least another 3 hours and then it’ll be morning not long after that and I’ll be back. And then? I don’t know.
The menagerie hasn’t moved yet. We need time and their place is not quite ready yet. It will be and it will be epic, but until then they are here and we are there and none of us really know what the best thing to do is. At least I thought it was familiar here, but dogs love people not places and the cat loves places not the people. The goldfish is cool, and the chooks have no idea how epic their chook pen will be, but they’ll be into it. The rabbits want to free range, and they’ve been banned and are in a cage. So everyone is out of sorts and my beautiful new home is full (to the brim) of a “new” family and a “new” au pair and I’m here in my old studio (which has the best Wi-Fi ever) smelling like wet dog and wondering how long until I don’t miss the walls that housed us for all those years and witnessed all the growing and changing and heartbreak and re-growth and love and laughter and loudness and children and life?
I wrote about home 3 years ago. I only didn’t know who it would be with, but this is what I wrote. If you could see the house we now live in you would understand why it gives me goose-bumps.
There are lot of trees, and space, and a long driveway. The house is hidden by garden. There’s chooks and vege’s and a massive kitchen with a big dining table that fits us all when we’re all together. There’s room for extras too. The windows are big and the sunshine floods in and there’s a desk for writing that overlooks the trees. There are lots of colourful beds inside – one for each of our mix up of children – and a couch too big to move.
It alternates between quiet and music and talking and there are moments it so full of our voices it could almost be a din. But a friendly one. It always smells like cooking and fresh air and the garden (lemons and basil and coriander). But the feeling, the overwhelming feeling, is openness and a chance to be yourself. To bring who you are and live it.
Home isn’t a place or a house but a space in your heart that’s home-shaped, home coloured, feels homely and smells like home.
Welcome Please come inside.
And suddenly it’s not askew anymore. Just a quiet alignment, so subtle I almost missed it.
Right back in the centre. The heart of the home.