Good To Be Home

I wake each morning this week feeling unsettled. My nightly dreamscape has turned frantic, sometimes violent, with kidnapping, death threats, chase scenes that involve what seems to be every single person I've ever met. I wake exhausted, confused as to what day it is. I rise, feed the dogs, go outside, stretch, inhale, exhale, look skywards, stand still, do a couple of tai chi moves. The forest is silent now except for the chickadees and brown creepers and nuthatches. A lone blue jay sits on the fence post, resplendent, majestic in its cloak of flashing azure blue. I miss the summer sounds already but I settle into this new quiet. I still feel rattled, though.

It is Thanksgiving weekend. It is the one holiday in the calendar year that can stir angst, anxiety, apprehension within me. I think back to my younger self in 1976, arriving in Canada from Glasgow, unaware of what Thanksgiving was. It would be our first holiday to celebrate in this vast, unknown, country. My family dismissed it saying, We never did this in Scotland so why do it now? I desperately wanted this holiday to anchor me to this new, unfriendly culture but it didn't happen quick enough. My parents were busy finding their feet, learning to live without my brother. Eventually my aunts, who were Scottish immigrants of the '60s, took us under their wings and introduced us to this October tradition of pumpkin pie, cranberry sauce, stuffing, roast turkey, parsnips: things I had never tasted before. It made me feel strange, confused. Mainly I felt like a fish out of water. A third culture kid with no idea how to inhabit this new territory. When I moved back to Scotland as an adult, Thanksgiving was celebrated with roast chicken, apple pie, fennel, leeks, roast potatoes, kale, turnips, a dram or two of some peaty whisky; the harvest and bounty of Scotland within a New World celebration. We listened to the Tragically Hip and I would feel maudlin, discombobulated, wondering, once again, where I belonged. A fish out of water.

This morning I decide to re-read Anam Cara by John O'Donohue. After a 10 year hiatus, it is still a beautiful, lyric compilation. I re-read chapters on imagination, belonging, friendship, solitude. My heart softens, my breath slows. But it is the chapter on rediscovering the soul, coming home to the natural rhythm within us, finding sacred connection to one another and the landscape we inhabit that really gives me what I need today. I bypass the Godspeak and wade through the delicious cornucopia of words and thoughts, grateful for this re-discovery. I speak to my children, send them messages, photos of my dog walk, the vibrant leaves, the pot of barley soup I make for supper. I tell Frank I am grateful to be with him today, to make him a pear cake, to share it with him. He stands up, his now-small frame stooped over, and he encircles me in his arms. A soft kiss on my cheek. You're the greatest, he says, knowing I've been struggling. And you make the best cake. How about we have some more? I smile, say yes. I am filled with gratitude that I'm now at home in this clay body of mine: that my house of belonging is here on this earth. The urgency of living is rekindled and I know I will sleep well tonight. It is good to be home

The blessings for which we hunger are not to be found in other places or people. These gifts can only be given to you by yourself. They are at home at the hearth of your soul.
John O'Donohue





 

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