Finding Home.

My company (good friends from Louisiana) are on their way home. The house seems suddenly empty. It’s hard when good friends live a good day’s drive away. There is no impromptu, "Let’s go visit so and so…." My friends and family are scattered across the US. But that is how it has to be, since this mountain, this town, this cove at Killian Knob is where I belong. The mountains called me home.

 

My father was a restless man; probably still is. I’ve inherited his restless nature, which is all the more stunning to me that I am Home at last. Something here, something grabbed hold of me when I visited four years ago, something took hold of my imagination, and my secret innards. The soles of my feet feel right stepping across this ancient land. I breathe in the air and it fills my lungs full, expanding outward in satisfaction. I expel the air reluctantly. My eyes see and see and see. My ears hear and hear and hear. My mouth speaks no words, but all is understood.

 

My father was a restless man, and that restless nature settled in my marrow. My synapses toss and turn and flicker and shimmy. I understand him in ways I couldn’t as a child looking up up up at his handsome face. I wonder if he is Home now. I want to tell him that Home feels good. Home feels right. Home isn’t always where you were birthed screaming and red-faced (although that place is always as a birthmark upon one’s heart—my West Virginia is). Home may be where you are now, Daddy. There is that cliché: Home is where the heart is. It goes further than that. It goes deep into the marrowed bone. It is the place that is Right. It is where one steps out and breathes in the air and thinks, “I’m Home. I’m finally Home.” 

 

My restless nature, the one I inherited from my restless father, finds its outlet, still. It finds places in stories and characters. It finds places in my pacing about the little log house—touching this, touching that. It finds places in my sleep, for my dreams are wild and uncontrollable at times. It finds a way. I do not mind it now. Now that I am Home.

 

My father is becoming an old man now. I am becoming a middle-aged woman. We defy it, even without trying. I study his younger photographs – the ones before me, and I wonder how he imagined his life, and if in his imaginings I was somehow there. And when I arrived, did he study my fingers and toes and think, “I had a hand in this. I am part of the reason she is here. I am a piece of this creation. I am a number in her equation.”

 

Home. It took many years for me to find Home. For me to relax into my skin. For me to let out a sigh and in that sigh all the old disappointments and fears left my body – the air from my sigh was no longer wanted – it was expelled – and the mountain winds carried it away. I drew in new fresh air. Home air.

 

Daddy, guess what? I’m Home. Long ago, when you watched me sleeping, you had no idea of who I’d be, or where I’d end up. Now you can relax, Daddy. You can breathe out a breath you’ve been holding. That little girl has grown. She’s Home now.

 

The scales of all the years of your life can be lifted away and reveal what is to be revealed. Blink. Open. See.

 

Namaste.

 

 

 

(P.S. – I think I have a title! And I have a cover! –more later)

Advertisements

14 thoughts on “Finding Home.

  1. That was beautiful! I wonder if it\’s something inherent in these mountains. I, too, feel like I\’m finally home after years of moving and exploring and never feeling exactly like I belong. The minute I arrived here, I felt that this was where I was meant to be and these are my people. Thank you for sharing that!Small Footprintshttp://reducefootprints.blogspot.com

  2. I hopped over here from Small Footprints\’ site; it was your posts title that drew me. Beautiful piece! I\’ve recently put some $ towards my "home"– a patch in the Ozarks. I needs remain inn the big city a while longer, racing rats. The big city is not home.:) but i\’m headed there…Thanks for the beautiful imagery…Cygnus

  3. wow. daddy was a handsome man.home sounds like an awfully nice place to be. and like how nicely things are working now that you\’re there. :)i think someday i\’ll find home, too.

  4. hey. you know what\’s interesting about your dad\’s photo? his right pointer finger is a blur. he must have been tapping tapping tapping. part of that restlessness, do you think? couldn\’t even sit still for the photo? what\’s he doing????

  5. P-you are so right — that is my dad- tap tap tapping that finger (she says as her foot tap tap taps the floor)…

  6. Dear Kathryn, And when I saw her sleeping I softly kissed her brow, A thousand Angels sang in silence as a rain of stars fell to her garden. Grew, flourished, and gave light. There in a moments blessing is the rememberance, honor and respect. There is the quality of the space between the words in any language that communicates. Touches, Is fine art, and rages to make it better.Or so it seems to me. It is a bit late, Just wanted to let you know I am still about. As ever be well, Stephen Craig Rowe

  7. Home is where the heart is.All you have to do is following it.Even if your friends live far when you do see them its a special event with lots to share.Happy New Year

  8. I\’m so happy to find you through Ms. P. I have declared her my mentor, which makes you my grand mentor, yes? That\’s not a bad title to have.I love how much color and texture and feeling your words have. I can\’t wait to meet Virginia Kate with the new title and cover. I can\’t wait to fall into the words and swim around and smile at your magnificence. And I can\’t wait to stand in line at Borders to have you sign my copy on your tour. (Monterey – Borders – be sure to tell your agent.) :)Thanks, Kat.

  9. Okay, Kat, it\’s hushed right now; as hushed as a hot, damp south Louisiana afternoon gets, even in January. Everything got real quiet as I read your "Finding Home." Real quiet. So still I heard you exhale that long-held breath. So calm I let my belly muscles relax for the first time today. So true I nodded unconsciously as I read, as if I\’d known your restless Daddy all along. (Smile) I\’m still nodding. You\’ve made a home with your words. Magic, white magic is what it is. That ole mountain magic calling you home. Gumbo Writer said it true; you\’ve made me cry with your words. Love.

Comments are closed.