When I was small, I often woke up in the middle of the night, sensing things in the darkness. Sometimes I'd wake up frozen with fear, unable to move. I had nightmares and then panic attacks. When I could, I would jump out of bed to find a safe haven. My mother would be watching TV or sleeping soundly in bed. I'd quickly climb into her embrace, always welcoming and cozy. She'd snuggle me into her chest and rock slowly back and forth. Her skin was always warm and the left overs of her perfume smelled sweet and floral. She would never rush me, just sit with me, hold me, until the panic dissipated.
I'll never forget the day my childhood home was sold. At the time, my life was messy and full of grief. I was struggling to find my way. That evening, I spent the night with my boyfriend. He kept late hours and I was often alone at bedtime. As he watched TV in the next room, I laid in bed watching shadows dance on the wall. I didn't want to be alone, but I also didn't feel safe enough to share my sadness. My brain started buzzing with memories of love, togetherness, music but also loss, anger, and abandonment. I found myself wrapped up in my own arms, rocking myself back and forth as tears soaked the pillow. I fell asleep, not mourning the house, but the loss of reminders. The loss of a place that reminded me of those times, those memories where home existed.
Today, I often wake to the sound of little feet heading my direction. A little voice sounds in the darkness, full of fear and uncertainty. I take the little body into my embrace and provide the same safe space, the same assurance my mother gave to me. I hold them tight and wait for their dreams to return, hopefully settling them until morning. It's a an honour being that safe place, especially to someone with monsters under their bed.
It's been a year now, since we moved to this new country. When I first arrived, I carried many dreams and unrealistic expectations of home. I wanted everything to happen so quickly, I wanted to transplant the life I had. I didn't factor in all the complexities that come with moving to a new place. I had lived in different places before, but never needed a foundation. I was so rooted in the idea that home is a house, a place. I knew better! The need for home is so human, we seek it out, wanting to make it better and better for ourselves and the people we're responsible for. Sometimes it's a difficult path, maybe not given to us so easily. We strive for it, only to be thwarted by ourselves or some outside force. As time passes the lessons come and keep coming. Home manifests and morphs into various things over time. It becomes something bigger, something more precious.
When I allow myself to feel joy
When I hold my children while they dream.
When I find safety in the arms of my partner.
When I sit quietly in gratitude.
I'm rooted
I'm open to life
I'm home.
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