I grew up in a few different houses. Got older and lived with a few friends. Had a roommate, a stranger, here and there. Rented an apartment. I've lived under many roofs.
I've only called two places Home.
That house I grew up in had a ghost. She waited at the end of the hall for me every night. I would sprint from my room to moms'. Some nights, I'd walk slowly just to make sure she hadn't abandoned me. That house was haunted. Neighbors, all of them, were drunks. The one white family were busy bodies. Calling CPS on my mom every time, I urinated in the front yard.
That house in that trash strewn neighborhood surrounded by three specatcular lakes where I learned to fish without bait, was home.
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Years later, I learned about family. Had the amazing luxury to live in an upper class neighborhood with best friends and in between missionary trips, their nuclear two parent family. We even had a foreign exchange student there. It was glorious. I never spoke at dinner when the parents were present. I'm awkward in family settings. Especially, around fathers.
That house was haunted by a living ghost. 2003, he found peace. God in all His mercy.
That was home.
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This place is a hotel, apartment, halfway house and rehab center all in one. My room is 68 degrees. Cold, just how I like it. I only get 12 channels on my 36 inch flat screen TV. I'm spoiled. I want more. This is temporary. God in all His mercy. This is temporary.
Its a cliche in movies when writers isolate themselves so they can focus. My window leads out to a Goodyear Tire Center and Costco. Not exactly inspiring or scenic.
This isn't home. It's lonely. The inspiration to write flows like the emptiness in the dances of the Bacha Bazis. But I dance anyway.
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The obese 18 year old girl at the front desk had me sign a form promising I wont drink or do drugs. I'M A FREE MAN, I tell myself. But since I do neither and have no vices, I happily signed my name. And the judgmental cynic in me looks at her with resentment. If you're pushing 400 pounds at 18, you're the mess. Not me. God in all His mercy, this is temporary.
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I want to feel sorry for myself. I can't.
A week ago, a friend contacts me to tell me her young chocolate lab dropped dead. And she's devastated. I don't spoon feed friends with cliches. So, I just say I'm sorry. Because I am. God in all His mercy. Time is linear. Time is linear. Time is linear. And this is temporary.
And then tonight, I wanted to feel sorry for me. Just once. A woman I will always love contacts me. She is haunted by those Bacha Bazis. And the inspiration to do the one thing I do well enough, flows like the River Jordan.
God in all His mercy. Love is linear. Love is linear. Love is linear. And permanent.
Like Home.
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