One Half Buddhist, One Half Christian, One Half Pagan

Last night I sent in the check for our share in Denison Farm. I'm hoping that having a steady supply of fresh veggies & fruit will encourage us to actually eat them. It will be interesting to see what we end up with.

This is the copy I'll be fine-tuning.

If you care, check back to see the changes.

Defining Home


Lake Odessa
I go back,
to a town I never lived in,
and yet it is home.

Dad's parents were born there,
grew up there,
were married there.

I hear the stories:
Gramma's stories of the family store during the Great Depression and WWII,
Her stories of her father and his adventures,
Papa and his brothers driving all the farm kids to school in the car they fixed themselves.

I stand in the cemetery,
and I can see the graves of six generations of my family.
From my cousin, killed in a accident when she was eight
to my many-greats grandfather, who bought the family farm
just after the Civil War.
Part of that farm is still in the family.

Grand Ledge
I go back,
to a town I moved away from when I was small,
and yet it is home.

Dad was born there,
grew up there.
Mom moved there as nearly an adult,
finished high school there.
They married there,
and I was born there.

I drive through town,
and I see traces of three generations.
The house Gramma & Papa bought as nearly newlyweds
where Dad & his sisters grew up,
the parsonage where Gramma & Grampa R lived until I was 5,
the house a few blocks away that they retired to when I was 10.
First United Methodist Church
where Grampa R was minister
home to weddings and baptisms
preschool and Sunday school
the Mother-Daughter banquet with all my Aunts and girl-cousins
where Gramma B and Aunt Kathy have sung in the choir as long as I can remember,
where we held Grampa R's funeral and I wept as the bagpipe played "Amazing Grace."
The coffee shop where Gramma B would buy Jackie & I breakfast after we spent the night.
Fitzgerald park where we'd walk the Ledges
with Dad taking us on the back trails that only folks who'd grown up there knew about.

I visit there
and unknown people with faces that should be familiar
stop me on the street
and tell me stories of my toddler-hood.

East Lansing
I go back,
to the town I spent my childhood in,
and it is home.

In early years,
playing freeze tag on weekend afternoons
and flashlight tag on summer evenings,
climbing the Bumblebee Tree and the jungle gyms with children from all over the world.
My best friend was from Uruguay, my first crush was from Nigeria.

In middle years,
my beautiful sunlit bedroom in our beat-up rental house,
living right across the street from the library
but having to walk half a mile to get there because there were no closer crosswalks,
Telling Mom & Dad we were going to the park,
but instead walking downtown to get Frostees from Wendy's.
Getting caught because Mom made us take Jon and three year olds can't keep secrets.
Being old enough to explore the Art Fest without Mom or Dad, as long as KC and I stayed together.
Sledding on Mickey Mouse Hill
exploring the woods of Burcham Park
eating tart apples from a neighbor's tree

In later years,
spending every moment I could Downtown and on campus.
Playing cards in Cafe V,
wading in Fountain Square,
wandering and window shopping
all the little stores.
Exploring the gardens and the buildings of the college,
reading in the university library,
just hanging out in the Student Union.
Thrilled to the depths of my 16-year-old soul when someone mistook me for a college student.

Albany
No need to go back,
I've lived here for nearly nine years,
but this place isn't home.

The people are what make this my home.
My husband,
my friends,
people who saw me with fresh eyes
and let me truly see myself.

Home is the places where my soul has taken root.

Last edited 8/11/08