(Paintings © Margret Hofheinz-Döring/ Galerie Brigitte Mauch Göppingen)
My post from yesterday made me start thinking more about "home" and what it means to be at home, and all those phrases that we use that have the word "home" in them, from homing pigeons to "home sweet home" to mothers telling their children to be "home before dark." I thought of this painting, titled "Landscape," by Margret Hofheinz-Döring, for it has such a wild, wind-swept look to it, with a handful of little houses huddled in the midst of the elements.
Someone hurrying back through this colorful storm in Margret's painting, a storm which she has so wonderfully painted right onto the frame, would want to get home before dark, if only they could.
Once, for ten years of my life, I moved so much that I had no sense of having a house that was home, so I had to find another way to have a home.
I had my old typewriter, my grandmother's sewing machine, my pens and inks, my books, and my notebooks and pencils. I often found myself in a house with five or six other people, but I would always try to find even just one little corner on the floor that was my own.
Sometimes I would be in a situation where I did not have the typewriter or the sewing machine or the pens and inks, or even my beloved books. But I always had the notebook and a pencil.
Even now I never go anywhere without a notebook and a pencil. I have this feeling that if I can just jot down a note about something, a word, a phrase, that somehow I'll be okay, no matter what. I always think that I can capture the world by putting this word with that word, by finding just the right word.
If I can just write, I tell myself, I'll make it home before dark.
Here is another of Margret's beautiful paintings: "Walking to the Church." My mother brought us up in so many different churches that the word "church" almost means "world" to me. When I look at this painting, I see a family walking right into the church of the world. (And I love how Margret has painted a piece of lace right into and all around the edge of her frame!)
My little notebooks and all my thoughts and imaginings have been a kind of world to me, an escape sometimes, but, still, a place I love to be in. But I'm really always reaching for that home that we are all traveling to, trying to get there before dark.
There is a line that I loved the most from The Book of Common Prayer this is used in the Episcopal church. I remember this line from the times I went with my mother to a little church that was so close by we could walk to it: "Come unto me, all ye that travail and are heavy-laden." (St. Matthew 11:28)
I've been thinking that this is what we say to each other when we reach out to make friends, too. And I can see that I will have to return to this whole idea of home again. And again. And again!
Here is what Kahlil Gibran says about houses: "And though of magnificence and splendour, your house shall not hold your secret nor shelter your longing. For that which is boundless in you abides in the mansion of the sky, whose door is the morning mist, and whose windows are the songs and the silences of night."
It is still the early morning dark that I love so much, the dark before the day begins. In an hour from now, at first light, I will go walking with my notebook. Later my husband and his mother Oleta and I will be celebrating someone's birthday today. (It is my husband's birthday today but he likes to be very quiet about such things, so I won't mention it here, except to say thank you with all my heart for making such a safe home for me in this big, big world.)
We promise to be home before dark.
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