there’s no place like home

Author’s note: I will be returning to including audio versions of essays next week when I’m back in my digs.

I’ve been on the move over the last few weeks. Fall harvest is always our busiest time as we take our produce like winter squash, onions, garlic, and potatoes and cure them before tucking them away for the winter. Animals are killed and butchered then wrapped, frozen or processed by drying, curing, or canning. This year the work of autumn that nourishes us over the year was layered with stays from family and friends, a competition we host at our farm, a longer hunting trip by my husband and, most recently, my little escape-vacation with our daughters.

The plan was a few days soaking up some sunbeams by the ocean, but with our young granddaughter in tow, we had to keep travel time down. We decided on Florida - exactly, as it turned out, where Hurricane Milton landed. Our trip was cancelled and we were left scrambling for alternatives. What we came up with ended up being a hodgepodge of revolting Air BnBs (one that we walked out on but have been refused a refund), losing the cost of flights on “non refundable” tickets, and paying for things that didn’t deliver. In all, it was a trip saturated in paying double for everything and nothing looking as it was planned.

I have been in crappy travelling situations before with other people who, quite literally, crumbled when things didn’t work out as they were supposed to. I didn’t like the way a person could behave in a way that would amplify frustration or stressful moments. I’ve been that person in my life, too. I think it’s safe to say that we all have. But I don’t want to be the amplifier of bad and the dampener of good. I want to amp up what’s good and accept the changing of plans with grace.

The money is gone either way. The situation is not how we imagined it. We have to pivot and solve problems we don’t want to solve. But those things remain regardless of our desires. I can acknowledge my authentic feelings in the moment but I don’t have to give such power to circumstances outside of myself that I allow them to govern my actions. It’s ridiculous when you really think about it. Besides I want my adult daughters to see me as steady and dependable. We are always teaching as parents, no matter how old our children.

I always thought that at this time in my life I would be deeply rooted in my home, on our farm. I thought the gypsy vagabond life of our earlier years, moving from one army base to another, would be a faint memory. I’ve seen much of the world and for the rest I’m okay to learn of it through stories and images. I’m tired of moving. But life has other plans for us. Our daughters now both live in a different country. Our granddaughter, too. And, soon enough, more grandchildren.

We have thought long and hard about moving there, but there are considerations, layered and nuanced, that make it impossible for now. So we let those tearing thoughts lay while we fill ourselves with the responsibility and joy of our home and then, the delight of when we are together again. One of the benefits of our relationships with our daughters is the intimacy we share. There’s no pretence or awkwardness when we are together. We just fall into each other, hugging and holding and being as we’ve always been. I’m grateful for that closeness. We need it with all these miles between us. Some people live fifteen minutes from each other, I remind myself, but might as well be galaxies away given the distance of their hearts. Still… oh how I miss them already.

These are the thoughts all rumbling through my head as I sit in this little plane heading home to my man. Always the longing tear of one place mixed with the joyful anticipation of another. This morning my granddaughter, not even two years old, reached for me and said “Up, please, Pukkah” and then rested her warm, sleepy-soft cheek on my shoulder. I rubbed the curves of her round little body and marvelled at how quick life is moving. That was my daughter in my arms only months ago, wasn’t it? What to do in such a tender, heart aching moment other than be in it as fully as I can?

A blink of an eye later and I’m sitting on this plane and the air smells foreign and the man next to me has closed the plastic window so I can’t see the clouds and I’m wondering why I’m in this God forsaken metal can when I should be on my farm, beside my husband, reaping what we’ve sown together.

The longer I live in my home, the deeper my roots spread. When I go into the city, or travel on these trips, I notice the changes in our world more acutely. Are people more stressed? They feel like it to me. We’ve gotten so much heavier and decrepit. We are unwell and it’s palpable. Everything is fake and plastic and synthetic in the rooms of commerce. Things I reject outright. That’s not the world! They got it all wrong! And yet, here I am. Making the decision to participate out of love. Not forced, dear Tara. Choosing.

In everything there’s a choice. The question is whether or not we can live with the consequences of that choice. And then, bigger still, can we live with those consequences with grace?

My inclination is to stay where I am, peaceful in my little bubble, but that’s not to be and there’s a reason for that. There’s a reason for everything.

So I live in this world of dichotomies. The ones around me and the ones within. I have found peace in living in a world where I focus on the things within me and have come to accept that the way my world unfolds before me is mine to live with faith. Faith that it’s all as it’s meant to be and there’s someone a lot bigger than me that thinks it’s exactly what I need. To everything, and I mean everything, we must rise.