To Home, from Home

Adventurous blood can be a dangerous thing.

It spirals through my veins like threads of scarlet ink and makes me seek the high seas, pirating any sense of belonging. Down comes my Home Sweet Home sign, my sentimental touchstones are shoved into tombs of memory and only the bare essentials are packed for the trip. I cheerfully stand in the bow of a metaphorical lurching vessel, face to the wind and stare down the Great Unknown.

Lack of adventurous blood can be a dangerous thing.

It glides through me like treacle - sweet lavish ribbons of melting softness. I can smell honeysuckle and gardenias while I sip tea from china passed down from my great-grandmother. The house gleams with scented polish and the silver is buffed. Linen is starched and sprayed with lavender and my bed's comforter is a field of waffle white where the sunlight dapples through the apple tree leaves outside the white wooden shutters of my window. Pear and ginger cake cools on the bench and the grandfather clock ticks rhythmically, peacefully. Candles glow, old books are lovingly faded and life tells a graciously quiet story here.

I have recently begun the journey of mingling the vastly differing essences of what make me who I am. It is an epic discovery of intentional exploration which can be a little bewildering at times. Trailing Corporate Spouse meets Anne of Green Gables Wannabe.

I have not posted for a long long time I know. We went back to New Zealand for Christmas and my heart was as skittish as a colt. But I was surprised to feel myself gentle and settle under those dear folded hills. The place felt like it chose me, rather than I it. I let my internal compass swing unheeded and it told me I was home. I sat under white roses with my cafe order and let my pen tip the mystery in my journal. Embrace it wrote. Embrace. My dear ones pulled me towards them - allowing me to find a new sense of gravity in their arms, their words and eyes.

The time away was an overflowing vessel of rose-oil, love-drop moments that nourished the cynical cracks in me. Even the hues of the land - sage and almond, bone and blue, embossed themselves into the grain of my soul. I slipped into them like exquisite silk slippers and let the trying cease. I gave myself permission to love the land, to bond myself to it in order to have strength enough to leave again, knowing there was an umbilical cord that secures me to a source of rest and joy.

There were nuptials under a sky that was brimmed with brightness, starred with jacarandah blossoms, and we danced like wild things into the soft summer night. I saw generations holding hands and laughing with genuine delight as we enjoyed being together.

There was coffee, copious cups of tea, quiet time; fantails and dog walks; a night in the city with girlfriends; there were tears at friend's tables and laughter with marshmallows round a blazing brazier; picnics and bbq's, sundowners and giggles. Family and friendship blurring the lines of both and each becoming part of one and the same.

At the end of it all, I slowly donned on my travelling hat, gathered my brood and we bid our farewells. I drove through blinding sheets of emotion with a towel around my neck as mere tissues were not nearly adequate, away from home.

To home.


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