I found myself, upon my return from the holidays, struck by the fact that places I once called homes are now merely houses. Home has changed from this singular place with walls and a roof to a more encompassing feeling of being "home." When I am celebrating the holidays with family and taking a vacation from school, I am home. When I am tired of all of the bustle of suburban Maryland and I return to my Nashville apartment, I am home. I am home when I feel as though I am home. I don't understand it, but it won't settle down, it won't choose.
This led me back to something I've always been so focused on, growing up. Sometimes I want it and I cherish it, and sometimes I run like hell from it. But I'm always thinking about it in terms of new discoveries I make, this "home" thing notwithstanding.
This blog is meant to be creative, but I've been treating it more as a non-fiction journal. I think the holidays are doing that to me. Anyway, here is a piece of creativity, may there be more to come.
This whole growing up thing,
It doesn't work for me.
I miss being taken care of,
Now they say I must make my own home,
Make my own money,
Take care of things.
Now when I return to this house,
I cannot call it my home,
Nor can I call it theirs.
It is just a house where I once lived,
As are all of the houses where I once lived.
No, this whole growing part,
It is not for me.