Coming Home

Our Canopy

I noticed it first when we came back from California after my niece's wedding.  It wasn't flying over the National Mall or the Potomac River that did it. Wheeling my luggage onto the Metro didn't spark it, and neither did the promise of humidity that was visibly melting the outside world.  But when we were in the car, driving back to the house past the local pizza place, the parks, through the impossible summer green canopy and toward our own nest, I was surprised by it.

Our Treehouse View

Three weeks later, after another trip to California to bury my father and spend time with my widowed mother, I felt it again.  This time stronger, and still more surprising.  This time I felt it as soon as the airline captain said "Welcome to Washington DC."  My body began to relax and my heart found a still center as the plane taxied in, knowing Dwight would be waiting at the end of the jetway.  Again, as we drew nearer to the house and the trees closed in overhead, I couldn't deny it.  Looking at my husband from the passenger seat of the car, along the road to 7537 Carroll Avenue, I said, "this feels like coming home."

He nodded. Home. Truly?  Can it be so?  It seemed more than just looking forward to my own pillow or cooking in my own kitchen.  I wanted to hug the little ones and water my plants, to see the un-done walls with splotches of sample paint, unpack the suitcase and have a glass of wine, but even those things were only part of what I felt.  What I feel.  I feel home.

Montessori Cuties

It's been one year, one month and about a week since we pulled up the driveway to this new life ,  belongings thinned out, friends left behind, and full of trepidation and excitement.  And what a year it has been!  Along with all of the expected adjustments and figuring-out, there has been a new job (Dwight) and a job change (Emily), a new baby, a health scare for the cat (she's fine), I've started a program for kids at home, and my father has died.  That's a lot in a year that is soaked in the daily drama of making a multi-generational household work with as much love and efficiency as possible.  It's home.

Amelia & Asaka bake cookies

Houseguests were waiting for me, friends that had arrived while we were still away.  Little Amelia, now finished with Kindergarten, was a student of mine in my other home, that used-to-be-California-home, that place that I will still and always call home.  She and her family came out to stay with us for a few days, and it was so good to have them here.  The busy-ness of the days made it easy to see that life goes on, and playing host drove the feeling deeper.  I am home.

Our neighbors waved and stopped to chat, asking about our time with family and how everyone is doing.  Our fellow church members missed us, called us, welcomed us back on Sunday morning, offered condolences - the kinds of support one might expect when coming home.

I have, for a year, had a foot in two worlds.  Now it's different.  Now my heart, also, has two homes.

The sweetness of being an Oma