“We are all strangers in a strange land, longing for home, but not quite knowing what or where home is. We glimpse it sometimes in our dreams, or as we turn a corner, and suddenly there is a strange, sweet familiarity that vanishes almost as soon as it comes…”
Summer comes to a close today. This summer for me was mostly a dream, partly a nightmare, partly déjà vu – like I had been through a season like this before but could only recall the feelings and not the outcome.
I’ve been trying to make sense of these last few months, and what I keep coming back to is that the season has felt like searching for home and finding pieces of it in the most surprising places. There’s the home that we build, the home that we find, and the one of which we only get glimpses.
The other day was one that started off sour. I was in a bad mood – I just wanted to get out of the house before noon, and all I could think about was what was undone, both literally and emotionally, and the clutter everywhere. Then, after we set up our towels and umbrella at the beach, after I had coffee and a burger – because truly, is there anything scarier than a hangry and undercaffeinated pregnant woman? – I watched my boys dance around the in the sand and felt the baby kick in my stomach. We ate mud pie on the pier and watched the surfers and the waves. There was sunshine and sea breeze, and the day turned out to be all kinds of perfect.
For five years, it was just Ruth and Dave, two kids who chose to grow up together, who chose love when it felt alternately inevitable and impossible. For a season, we lived across the world and only had each other. Now, nine years into marriage, we’re a family of four, with one of the way.
My preschooler, Noah, told me the other night, “I’m so lucky. I get to snuggle you and hold your hand.” In a season of distraction – where it felt like my heart, mind, and body were all wandering around in different places – moments like these were and are the greatest gifts.
There is no substitute for showing up to the life that you’ve built.
What I’ve learned, also, is that there are pieces of home in the friendships that I’ve invested in – relationships where I’ve found parts of myself or seen traits that I didn’t know I had reflected back to me. There are relationships that make us feel known and loved, that point us in the right direction, the ones where we feel safe even at our most vulnerable. These connections aren’t perfect – because we’re human – but I’m grateful for them nonetheless.
This season was both surprising and familiar, disconcerting and sweet, heartbreaking and nostalgic. I’ve learned that it’s ok to feel the tension between two disparate states of being. The tension is a reminder that there is a home that we can’t quite grasp – one that we can sense but feels just out of reach. It’s ok to mourn not only for what we have lost, but also for what was never ours. There are things that we want that are not for this lifetime. Or maybe they are, and we just can’t see the way to them from where we stand.
Seasons are porous, especially in California. One day, you can drive with all your windows rolled down because of the chill in the air, and then the next day, it’s melting hot. Summer and fall bleed into each other like watercolors, like the sand on a shore, washing in and then out again.
Tomorrow: fall, with its birthdays and celebrations and Thanksgiving. Tomorrow: apple orchards, cider, and all things pumpkin. But I’ll carry with me this summer and what it taught me about home.
