Mindful Wanderings

Home: Settling Back In

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“Monterey” by Unknown Artist

During our last trip for appointments, as Casey and I drove past the hospital to Family House, we bantered about missing our life during Olivia’s hospital stay. It’s weird to miss a place that we were itching to leave. We desperately wanted our space back. I wanted my family to all be in one room together. I wanted control over our daily schedule. I previously wrote about the beautiful gift that is community at Family House. Since leaving we have been welcomed back with warmth — thanks to Family House we always have a free place to stay when we have appointments. The last two visits have helped me realize how much part of me misses that routine we had created. When we exit the 280 there is a sense of arriving at a familiar home. It’s a mixed bag of feelings — especially for Casey who hates city-living and usually can’t wait to leave after a night or two.

But, the feeling of peace that envelopes my body as we have settled back at home is undeniable. I find myself stunned, still, after being home for two months, at how slow our little village is and how perfect the Spring and Summer lighting is in the early morning in the valley. A rush of nostalgia as the warm light comes through oak trees and wildflowers add a splash of color to the browning California hillsides. A renewed connection to the land as I kick up dirt at Garland Park, my postpartum body struggling to run the trails that I can still navigate with half of my brain while the other half is distracted by fleeting epiphanies. I have found myself in old patterns that have been healing. Patterns that help me remember my core, my self. One afternoon I mindlessly turned down Carpenter and followed the truck route and weaved through Carmel. This particular pattern startled me into the realization of how overwhelmed and sad I was feeling. Both kids asleep in their seats, my soul took me to the beach.

“The cure for anything is salt water: sweat, tears, or the sea.”

– Isak Dinesen

A rush of gratitude overcame me. This place, my home, has offered a refuge for me for most of my life. The deepest part of me is so intertwined with this place that without any conscious thought it takes care of me. I sat at the beach with my windows down listening to waves crash and tourists chatter wondering how many hurts have been healed and how many relationships strengthened and restored by the side of the massive and powerful Pacific. I used to say that going to the beach was the best thing to do when you have a problem because you are forced into humility as you look into the expanse that holds a hidden world. Little did I know what that would mean to me today.

While I was sitting there by the beach I remembered a picture I had taken in San Francisco when Olivia was still admitted. The day I took the picture, I decided to walk through a different, further entrance into the hospital. Along the hall there was an abstract painting hanging on the wall. I am not one to sit and absorb art, but this piece grabbed my attention long enough for me to translate the streaks of colors into hills, land, and water as I walked past. It struck me how much it reminded me of home. I actually took a few steps backwards to give it another look. As I scanned the painting I noticed the white tag with the word “Monterey” written on it. I did a double take, thinking surely my mind had auto-completed, but it hadn’t. There on that little white rectangle hung the name of the artist and title of the piece, “Monterey.” As I walked away I contemplated home. I questioned how I could so easily associate this painting with a place in such a brief encounter. Is it the pure talent of the artist that the essence of a place could so aptly be captured in a painting? Or does my connection to this place make it so that my body intimately recognizes it through the simple suggestions of ratios of land and sea and the balance of colors.

As I got into the elevator and hit “3,” I could feel my home in my bones. I carried that encounter that rainy morning with me throughout our stay in San Francisco. I actually started this blog post while we were still up there and had written, “It is home and will always be home no matter how long I am gone. I realize how lucky I am that I so keenly have a sense of belonging. And lucky me: I feel I belong to a place that has astonishing beauty. I look around at views that could easily be paintings hanging on walls in far away places. And so often I walk past and forget to observe and absorb it.”

Since being home I have made every effort to absorb it all. To memorize the hillsides and the shadows. To remember the nuances of our coastal seasons. To honor the power of place.

+JMJ+

 

2 thoughts on “Home: Settling Back In”

  1. Natalie thank you for the update! I hold you all in my heart and my prayers! Sam couldn’t wait to get home either.. she would roll down the window and put her sunglasses on and just soak in the sunshine and the wind on her skin! I have always felt blessed to be able to raise you guys in our sleepy village surrounded by the soul healing mountains and beaches.. We are truly blessed! May you all find the strength and love you need from your home and community. you are stronger then you think and more loved then you know!

    Liked by 1 person

  2. This is beautiful, as always. Makes me want to reflect on the meaning of home…something I have been thinking a lot about lately. I feel this hole in the center of my heart these days and I feel like home is the antidote–the thing that fills the space.

    Home is also bound up in the never ending searching for identity and belonging. Living in Sacramento, the city of immigrants, America’s most diverse city, makes me feel a particular sense of hollowness. My high school students I am working with this summer are all second generation and they seem to have thing longing, this deep, primal need, to go back to their “homelands,” the places where their parents are born. Yet, I, a person who identifies as an American (or European American), am just here, in this place called America, trying to make sense of what that means, to claim this place as my home.

    Like

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