Childhood home- ambivalent landing

Barn door.
Want to open the barn door?
Muddy and vast.


We arrived at my Mom's house last night after a wild thunderstorm had passed through and it was like arriving in a rain forest. The birds were making a rukus, it was wet and the leaves from the trees were drip, drip, dripping. Today, the clouds are lingering but the rest of the weekend is supposed to be nice.

My Mom still lives in my childhood home. Or at least a remodeled version of my childhood home. It is always so weird and strangely comfortable to be back. The high pitched rub of the door on the doorjam is the same as it was 29 years ago, there is the hole cut out of the side of the shed so that my 4-H project Rabbit wouldn't freeze in the winter, there are the same trees amid the vast blank canvas fields. But then there are the differences: 7 rows of strawberries living only in my memory, the blood stains on the back landing from when my brother got bit by a dog are officially faded into oblivion, and the clothesline that was in the same spot for years and years is not just a pole in the middle of the yard with a vine climbing on it. Each spot has it's own memories and histories, and of course those memories and histories are rich in fondness and otherwise.


As the claim on each of these thing in my history is ambivalent so too is sharing it with Junia. I hope her memories of it are not ambivalent but delightfully fully of wonder and awe.

On another note, connected but not directly, the wonderous sounds of birds, wind, stillness, and crickets, rather than traffic, neighbors, and sirens is bubbling up our share of fantasies for our future.

Here are some Junia movies just for the heck of it.