Magic of Place pt. 2

We had spent the last twenty years in this home. Twenty years of messy joys. Twenty years of holidays and family, first high school parties, getting ready for dances, youth group events, all of it. I loved driving through the narrow one lane road that led to our street. It was lined with large oaks on both sides- what a treat it was to watch the seasons dress up those trees- beautiful. It had become automatic and now I had to learn a new routine. Familiar was no more. I thought I had done enough disruption to familiar with me moving a state way, but my family gave me a taste of my own medicine.
I wasn’t able to make it to the move and the last time I was “home” my mom had prepared the remainder of “my” boxes filled with treasures from childhood. These boxes I would need to go through or take. UGH. Lots of emotional labor was needed and I wasn’t sure I was up for it. I remember my mom and sister sitting down in the basement with me. Saying “we are here for you” as I went through my Pog collection, Hanson memorabilia, and  art masterpieces from my elementary days. If you could only see my watercolor dragon! We laughed over finding leftover lost teeth and my strange collection of porcelain dolls. Dozens of first place handstand contests ribbons. Red ribbons of perfect scores from balance beam routines. It should be noted I had already thrown away the yellow ribbons (not perfect scores) from my routines on bars. I hated bars. Basketball tournament medals. Report cards. Third-grade math tests? I thought about why I had kept all this stuff. I think I kept them because I think it validated something in me that I had worth and value. That if I didn’t keep them there would be no record of me achieving anything. I mean, I kept the ribbon from Girl Scout Camp where I won second place in a hula hoop contest. As I sat there sifting through the boxes of stuff surrounded by people that love me the most, I realized how much I didn’t need any of that. It was indeed just stuff. It felt great to throw most of it away and I took pictures of things of great significance. I knew it wasn’t the literal pile of crap that mirrored back to me who I was. My family created the space that mirrored back to me an example of love, joy, opportunity, and hospitality.

Hospitality runs deep in my family and food is our love language. I remember going to my Granny Opal’s house for many many dinners not just on holidays. She wouldn’t let you bring anything. She made it all. From scratch. Her ROLLS. You could smell them as soon as you turned on the gravel road. She wouldn’t let you lift finger. She opened her arms for hugs and a cup of coffee. This carried through to my Mom and Pops. My Pops loves to cook. And he is real real good at it. BBQ master. Chill Cookoff lifetime achievement winner.  He always says everything tastes better with Paprika.  Growing up there were only four of us, but he would always cook for twelve. He always says you never know who might be coming. Which was true because it was often I had friends over who were always welcome to dinner or my aunts and uncles who would just pop by and there was always enough. Always. My mom always brought out white tablecloths and colorful napkins. I loved (still do)  helping her set the table. They both understand the value of welcoming people to the table. (Even when they “argued” about the thickness of the gravy) We were always the ones to host high school dances. My pops would cook a four-course meal. My mom and sister would help with the decorations. People always felt celebrated and knew they had a place at the table.  When my best friend at the time decided to run away in high school she came to our house. When college friends would come home and visit they’d often leave with another “set of parents.” Even as I have brought my Nashville kin home my parents never fail to say, “you always have a place here.”    I realized I didn’t need a bunch of junk or even a place to remind me of that. That even with a new move the magic of love, joy, opportunity, and hospitality isn’t tied up in stuff or even a place, it’s in the people who surround me.

As we approached the new street of my parent’s new home for the first time, I was giddy but thought there may be some bittersweetness when I arrived. It was almost 1:00 am and I had expected to come home to a dark and still house. Not quite how I had anticipated my first new homecoming. When we pulled in the drive tired and worn from our 6-hour journey, the lights were on and we were welcomed with the door swinging wide open to my mom jubilantly shouting, “You’re HERE!” and giving us all big hugs. My dad was right there too with a kiss on my forehead and a “glad you’re home baby girl.” They waited up for us ready with embraces of love and comfort. My mom couldn’t wait to show us around the new house making sure everyone had what they needed before we crashed into our beds. That weekend we enjoyed quality conversation and lots of good food around the table. I realized that it didn’t matter what home we were in, but the magic was in the togetherness.

I write this because it helps me remember to stay present. It helps me remember to continue to exercise my own passions of hospitality and sacred space. Even when people and places change I look at who and what I am surrounded by and it draws me back into the magic and beauty of now. I press in and give thanks.

 

Make it beautiful,

twenty years on Tanglewood Dr.

 

 

Here is a look back at some “treasures”  I found:

The water color dragon! I painted first and the had to free hand the dragon.

Polly Pockets for hours.

I am proud of my music taste in the 90s;)

These could easily be my resolutions for today. Self Preservation blind anyone?

 

The beginnings of Creative Cards Inc.

I remember going every Saturday to Downtown Book and Toy to spend my allowance on new POGs