A Still Summer

Travel took pause this summer. We didn’t make it to South Africa, South America or even very far from South Rockwood. They say you can’t go home again. But home is exactly where we landed and stayed, for much longer than we had anticipated.

It was no easy task, fitting our lives into someone else’s closets. Harder still to find our place in their routines, their daily rituals. All grown-up now and accustomed to life as a twosome, we brought with us boxes full of new ideas, new ways of being, brazen thoughts about how lives should be lived. Then we hastily unpacked and set up shop.

Somehow, after the invasion, when the dust began to settle we found ourselves stumbling through a symbiotic dance, sharing the space, the chores, the meals, the laughter, and learning to side-step most sensitive topics. We gave a little and got more than we could have imagined. 

There was work to be done, and we rallied to do it, and cursed under our breath when the world got in our way. We learned things together, we watched each other rise to the occasion (and sometimes fall), and the take-away message is with us still. We grew. 

I am writing as a witness. You can go home again. The place, the people, everything is still there. But it is not waiting for you with baited breath. It is in flux, breathing, changing, moving on without you.

So, when you do go home, you must tread gently. Try not to invade. Instead, listen and learn. Participate with an open mind and an open heart.

Take note that the fruit that hangs heavy from the trees grew from seeds sown while you were away. Take time to break open that fruit and share it with the ones you left behind. Thank them for their patience, their love and their support. And, when you leave again, feel blessed, knowing that they will miss you when you’re gone.