Going Home
The cabin known as Paraggi, named after an Italian fishing village
Home is far more than a physical space, it’s a spiritual way of being
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Going home. Creating home. Finding home. Being home. Doesn’t it seem like we are always searching for something — looking to renovate, trying to make it bigger, better…more…to get someplace? Yet, home isn’t a thing…it’s a feeling.
I don’t know about you, but I’ve lived in a lot of places throughout my life connecting and disconnecting.
‘Home’…a 4-letter word that holds tremendous gravitas and stirs the emotional pot. Home sweet home. Home is where the heart is. There’s no place like home. Can you ever go home again?
The homes we grew up in are the containers that hold our childhood memories and even forgotten pieces of ourselves. There’s no wonder that we pine for them and feel attachments.
I am one of the fortunate ones whose mother still lives in her childhood home. And though the décor has changed, the rooms have shifted around and the remnants of my life are tucked away in dusty boxes covered in cobwebs in the attic — my connection to this house where I started kindergarten remains. I have come in and out of this home on many occasions, even some unexpected extended stays as an adult (but that’s a story for another time).
Through the years and chapters of my life I’ve come to believe that these humble abodes that we reside within are much more than walls and foundations, they are the gentle keepers of all that has passed through them — the energy, the emotions, the tears, fears, joys, triumphs and the becoming — no matter how fleeting.
They smile when they are tended to and yearn for life when they stand empty — and they respond to our nurturing.
I never really paid attention to this until I moved to Woodstock sixteen years ago. Prior to that…well, a house was just a ‘house’ in my book.
When I first arrived in the Catskill Mountains, it was a time of great personal vulnerability. I was taking a colossal step forward in faith, believing that life reinvention was possible. My world was in shards, remnants of what I could salvage from the past and what I was choosing to carry forward — a mixed bag for sure.
My small white farmhouse was purchased on a wing and a prayer financing, and a pinky swear promise the house and I quietly made. Though loved, her previous two owners were second homeowners who were rarely there. The frigid February afternoon when I first peered through her old, beveled windows to glance inside, I told her I would fill her with life; kids, a dog, activity…provided she held on (i.e. kept her roof, furnace and various other household appliances and equipment together until I could get back upon my financial feet).
She winked enthusiastically and agreed — and we both made good on our word
I share this because I’ve been thinking about this notion of home a lot lately and the importance of connecting and honoring the spaces we live within. But also about recognizing that despite the floorboards, fixtures and shelter — home is more than a physical structure. It is a way of being.
I recently experienced a truly magical homecoming I want to share that helped remind me of this.
For as long as I have known Bill (17+ years), he has lit up whenever speaking of his family’s summer cottage on Lake Michigan on 40 acres of beach front property. It felt like all of his childhood memories were contained there and it had become quite a mythical place.
Years passed, as did his parents, and this magnificent property was sold. It wasn’t until decades later when his sister passed away and the notion of where best to spread her ashes arose, that a homecoming began to percolate.
And this is where the magic began to unfold.
With a little research, Bill began to seek out the contact info for the current owners. Perhaps we could rent the house back for a family reunion? Perhaps we could travel and meet up upon her shores to celebrate his sister’s life?
Months passed with no word and a ‘return to sender’ letter that was undeliverable. He had hit a dead end until he unexpectedly received a call as a result of his previous outreaches. One of his letters had landed in the hands of an attorney who handled the closing and after a conversation, gladly forwarded his contact info onto the current owner. Within minutes, Bill was conversing with this stranger whose family had lovingly experienced similar family stories at the cottage.
It made his heart smile to know that this special place that had been a cornerstone of his family was similarly the same for another. She had been loved and she loved in return.
This conversation between strangers, each strolling down memory lane, resulted in an extraordinary invitation. Our family (8 adults, 2 kids, 2 dogs and a whole hell of a lot of beach paraphernalia) was invited to spend a day on the property to conduct our memorial, to meander about the house and to languish beneath the sand dunes of the beach.
Who does this kind of a thing? Who opens their house to strangers like this? Allowing us to spend the afternoon on the beach was one thing — she literally opened her house and heart to us. We were able to wander in and out of the various rooms — to feel, see, smell, touch, sense all the stories that had unfolded here. To momentarily relive the past. Time stopped as we breathed it all in.
It was like a time warp for Bill and his other family members. Much of the original décor had remained — pieces and parts of his parents travels about the world. From the moment we entered the property and drove up the dirt road through the woods that led to the cabins, we each felt chills (in a good way). Something was afoot. Something beyond our comprehension.
This wonderful woman chock full of generosity of spirit, enthusiastically invited us to indulge in the wonder of what once was. She just ‘got it’. In fact, she shared that all of her best memories of her family were contained here as well. Yes, we were standing upon hallowed ground.
The afternoon was full of many little miracles, signs sprinkled about, connection and heart — all affirmation to each of us who witnessed it — that this was a remarkable experience. The skies were crystal clear and blue, the sun was beaming down, a gentle breeze enfolded us, even the water was kindly temperate.
Through laughter and tears, ashes were spread in the most perfect of places — a profound moment shared. And when it was finally time to bid it all adieu by day’s end…I turned and looked back over my shoulder at the glorious sky famous for its Michigan sunsets and I knew…something had been completed. We said our proper goodbyes and would likely never return.
We may hold the deeds and titles to homes, but ultimately, we are simply the stewards passing through. And what an honor to be entrusted with. Ultimately, our homes are the representations of who we are and how we want to be in the world. Closed off, restrictive, shut down or open, receptive, generous and connected?
My friend Kate posted something recently about her own homecoming experience that resonated deeply.
“Turns out that home is not a place. It’s a way of being.” ~ Kate Northrup
Going home reminded me not of what I wanted to acquire, do, fix or renovate — it reminded me of how I wanted to be within it all. And who knows…perhaps I’ll invite a stranger in one day to walk down their own memory lane.
What is ‘home’ to you? I’d love it if you’d share in the comments below…