March 21, 2014


The smell of coffee early in the morning. The whistle of a clogged vacuum cleaner. Wine stains on the carpet and square halos where old photographs used to hang on the wall. Footsteps, laughter. What shall we do for lunch? The scent of fresh-cut flowers and kitty litter. Music and mud in the hallway.

A life lived.


Do you think they know, when they are built, to expect us somewhere down the line? Are they eager to meet us?

The homes that have us. That raise our children and endure our noise. That see us when no one is looking and cradle our fragility.

Homes that we build. That we are made to leave. Those that were just houses that we never made our own. Those that craved an owner like a tired fighting pitbull, and perhaps spent a lifetime licking their wounds and waiting.

Homes that couch our defeats, and respectfully show them the door when they overstay their welcome. Those that anticipate our triumphs, and celebrate quietly by ruffling a few curtains and stretching their eaves.

Homes that get off on our lovemaking, and sigh and pillow talk with us. That watch us change partners, that change and grow with us. That comfort us when they are gone. That allow their walls to get cold after we are left alone. That listen to too much Adele and La Roux when we are gone as well.

Those that always remain projects, or promises. That were supposed to, should have, ought to, someday will…

Homes that are sad to watch us abused, abandoned, and lost. Those that never get to see happiness inside their walls. Those that were chosen to harbor secrets, ghosts, and death, without having a say in it.

Homes that keep us our entire lives, and those that we treat like train stations, means to an end. Homes that are not even ours, yet embrace us and we get to stay. Homes across the ocean, homes that let us go and never get over us. Those that wait, and wait, and wait for us to return.

Homes that gave us freedom. And those who gave us shit from the moment we moved in. Those that watched us make fools of ourselves and never asked a question. Those that we disappointed.

Do they know their fate in advance?

Do they enjoy being flipped?

Do they know when they are about to be torn down?

Are they jealous?

Do they have regrets?

Our drawbridges








Those that we never forget, and that never forget us, and our lives lived.


  1. I think I'm constantly looking for home...and it isn't a building. It's Querencia. I painted the word on an old chair outside my front door. This little rental house is the closest I've come, but I'm not sure I have fully arrived...or ever will. I might just be one of the many homeless, and that's okay too. But if I ever find it...if Querencia can be had with someone else???? Oh yeah. Gonna be home for sure.

    1. The only Querencia I would ever wish for myself would be with someone else... Not believing that it can be had would be betraying myself. So, yes, I am with you there. I like my homelessness (G. Lukacs described the novel as a thing of "transcendental homelessness," how delicious?). I will always want to keep moving. But I understand that I might change my mind, and that my soul mate is a nester. Your little rental house sounds like my little shared rental apartment in PA a few years back. It held my breakdown and watched me get closest to myself that I had ever been. Transition is a painful, beautiful thing. Keep painting... I wish you arrival to where you want to be.

  2. Home. I've been homesick most of my life. Craving a habitat of peace, and noise. A place where the coffee's always brewing, the cards have been shuffled, the dog sleeps beneath the kitchen table, and a 1000 piece jigsaw puzzle stays set up on a card table in the living room. A place where music inspires the rolling up of the carpet and bare feet stick to the floor. A place where heartache and joy are inseparable because love vibrates through it all, and all are one.

    Here's the thing: I pieced these tiny shards of life from my broken childhood, some are actual memories and others, I'm sure, are scenes from black and white movies, either way, I ached for this life most of my life, until recently...when I came to know home as myself. Me. I like that, most of all because it frees me to be at home always and everywhere. Right now we are in the middle of losing our house. I will miss it, but I have full intention of setting up camp elsewhere and carrying the cozy with me.
    I love today's post, Chris. It surely stirred me up.
    Sending love,

    1. I was floored by an observation which a new friend made about me the other day: "I can tell that you grew up loved. You were loved." Not because I was surprised to hear it - it is most definitely true - but because it is is so rare that we hear such simple insight echoed back at us.

      I have never craved a home in the way you describe, and in the way I have heard many people describe it. I chalked it up to (so-far) youth, when all you want to do is travel, and the desire for a homestead of your own supposedly comes later... But perhaps I was lucky to have carried that inner home with me, inside me, all along? Perhaps home was given to me with the love that raised me, before I even knew it? Either way, I count myself lucky and am grateful.

      You amaze me with the road you have travelled, and still travel, between being wounded and the ability to laugh at life's goofballery, between desires and losses, distances that stretch you in all different directons, and the gorgeous wisdom to always start and finish with yourself. Be well and do take the cozy with you, dear Leah.

  3. Home.
    So purrfect and idealized.
    Wanted and missed.



    "How pretty to think so."

    Home is duality.

    A place we create and want to live in,
    because this is what we are taught.

    But home, real home,
    is a place,
    a dark place of light and shadows and gray,
    and tactile touch that brings us back,
    and sends us on our way.


    I have never known such a thing.
    I have built many,
    and imagined the souls that would live inside my work.
    Peace and comfort was all that I could give.
    The roof would never fail.
    The floors would stay strong.
    The foundation wouldn't lean or heave,
    and set timbers apart and set souls to run away.

    Home is just an idea.
    Home is just a dream.

    A place, where when lights go out,
    and all is set to quiet,
    and the
    "Goodnight, God bless you, I love you"
    Is spoken aloud not just as a prayer, but a promise...

    This is home.

    This is how new, small, frail little things,
    set themselves to sleep in our great and seemingly ominous world.

    for this bastard,
    never begins,
    or ends.

    It is a place of constant renewal,
    and re-re-re-re-re-re-understanding.


    "Home, it's where I want to be." -David Byrne.

    Home is where good souls build,
    when heavy tides rush over the bulkhead and threaten the...
    to close to the waters edge.
    Home is the lightning hitting the black water,
    and rumbling the lighthouse.
    Home is the wind that never seems to cease
    these troublesome days,
    the wind that carries light and easy things off down the road,
    Recycle bins slide and grate across pavement, but stay close to home.
    But it is lids and the light and ethereal things inside, that take to flight,
    rise and float,
    and whisper and hover on the wind,
    like the osprey's out back on the black water.

    Weight, and purpose, is home.

    I have been the traveler,
    The broken, un-tethered kite let loose upon the wind over the water.
    And now all I wish is to come back down,
    and get tangled in the branches of a great tree that sits watch,
    out back, by the black water that ebbs and flows,
    tethers me to this place,
    and brings me home.

    And so it is.

    She has brought me,
    tangled and torn,

    And together we will unravel and follow and trace
    and unburden, from the rough limbs
    these threads of us,
    and climb down through the branches of our journeys,
    and just be...

    Just be home.

    She loves him the river.
    And he loves her the sea.

    Stolen words,
    but good words,
    that should be carved in stone,
    and placed in the garden of where ever they decide to call themselves,



I thrive on interaction. All comments are welcome and will be replied to.