Friday, December 7, 2007

The Comfort of Home

I just got back from two months away. It was supposed to be two weeks, but then it turned into three and five and almost eight. This is far from atypical in my search for stability, for Home-with-a-capital-H; my elusive ideal that so many take for granted.
So here I am, back at "home", back from "home" and very confused.
OK, let me backtrack: I have moved more times than years I've been alive. In my life, I've moved when my parents decided to distract themselves from other issues, when roommates stopped being kind, when I needed a change of career, when boyfriends didn't work out, when I was bored, scared, tired or in love, when I felt the need for change, when I felt that I was getting too comfortable.
Some people eat, others find shrinks. I do both of those. I also move.
After all, there's nothing like a good move to put things in perspective. All of a sudden, that bowl you thought you couldn't live without arrives cracked in two and you don't care because there is no space for it anyway; your grandmother's wicker basket that is covered in mold suddenly loses its sentimental value, you finally face the fact that the card your very first boyfriend gave you really shouldn't be among your stuff anymore.
I move, because it's easier than staying, less frightening than putting down roots.
Or at least I did … until I met D. D doesn't move: he’s got roots that he’s very proud of, he has about four million friends who all live in the same city, he subscribes to magazines and buys apartments.
This basic difference between us is also apparent in how we pack for moves (or holidays, if I’m perfectly honest)
Whereas I clean house when I move, D shoves everything into whatever box or bag he can, promising himself to "deal with it later". He assumes he’ll have the time whereas I know I’ll be moving again sooner rather than later; so I sort through my belonging before I decide to take them with me.
But in our life together, D doesn't do the unpacking, I do. And my retrieval of dirty tissues, empty food wrappers and other disgusting, non-important-yet-took-up-space-in-the-move effects have made for some interesting and loud pre-and-post-move "discussions".
I yell, D looks scared; I get angry, D gets sad; I feel guilty, D wraps me in his arms and comforts me.
Sometimes, when I wonder why we are together, whether there is anyone else out there for me, and, more often, why D isn't with some nice, subdued girl with bangs, I remind myself that if I were to find someone who would put me back in my place more, we'd probably kill each other within six months.
I take comfort in D while still wondering -- even after three and a half years, even after a ring and a wedding to plan -- when he will wake up and realize that he can do better than the fat, neurotic, bitchy freak that I am.
But regardless of my fears and insecurities, my instinct to move no longer applies. I can't move away every time we have a fight, when D gets mad at me (yeah, like that ever happens!) or me at him (this is the more realistic scenario), or when he looks at me with hurt that I have caused (yeah, this happens way too often as well). I can't move when I have a bad day, when I feel like an outsider and need to search for my "home".
-- Eye Rolling Moment Alert --
Because D is my home. The eternally homeless girl, the Wandering Jew, the rootless, aimless child has found a home. It’s called sitting in front of the television holding his hand and munching on dinner with a glass of wine, trying to stay in bed as long as I can so I can wake him up at a decent hour (I rarely succeed), staying on the phone talking about nothing just so I can hear his voice for a little longer, missing our rhythm when I’m away because it’s a good combination of mine and his.
What is most shocking to me is that from this wonderfully comforting place, I still search for an ideal "home" -- a place where we'll never argue, where I'll accept D's foibles and stop seeing him as weak, a place where I'll stop battling my self. Even in this wonderful, blissful place, I still yearn for some ideal, a perfection that could never exist because I am a flawed being as is D (though he would have a harder time admitting it than I would).
In my moments of clarity such as this one, however, I realize that part of "home" is all of those things: the cycle of ups and downs, the days of acceptance and those of questioning, the sad moments and the ecstatic ones. Because only at home is it safe enough to ask all those questions, to feel all those feelings; and to find a quiet spot in which to deal with them in my own way, in my own time.
Home is where the questions are.

Comfort Food for the Health Conscious:

Morning Shake

Overnight, soak 1 T of flax seeds in water

In the morning, blend:

The flax seeds with
1T raw cacao
1T mesquite powder (if no mesquite is available, try molasses, carob or maple syrup)
1T nut or seed butter – hemp, almond, cashew, pumpkin, tahini or avocado (adds less taste)
banana and/or berries (optional)
a pinch of cinnamon (optional)

in water or rice milk or home made nut milk* or milk (if you drink it), or coconut

(also optional – protein powder, maca, green powder, coconut butter)

* nut milk: cover nuts – almonds, brazil, cashew, etc -- with water and soak overnight. In the morning, rinse them in a strainer. Then blend with fresh water (the more water you put, the thinner it will be). You can add sweetener or vanilla or cinnamon at this stage but that is not necessary. Strain the liquid into a jar and use as nut milk.
This usually doesn't stay fresh for more than two days or so.
Note: the pulp left over can be dehydrated / dried, and ground up for use as flour.

1 comment:

davidwolstencroft said...

Great entry.
Love the blog.
Love you.