the moving van’s dust
butterflies gather
Each time I revisited, many years later, a home that I’d loved, I felt upset and sad because of the changes from what I remembered. Gone was the copper beech I climbed. Gone was my grandparents’ attic of dusty, plain boards where I secretly played. Gone were our back steps leading to a grassy, gravel drive and an old, single car garage—charming in its leaning. Gone was the screened porch of the beach cottage with a high faucet out back to shower under pines after dark.
My discovery of spiritual views began in my late forties when I joined A Course in Miracles, and by my fifties, I had written a simple lullaby, “I live in the heart of God …” New spiritual thoughts that created the song were loosening my grip on the familiar and loved aspects of my different homes. Gradually I accepted that a few memories and a few photos were—just enough.
When younger, my teenage grandson, on my visit to America, asked me where my home was. I lived in Florida but I answered here, explaining that each home I went to became my home. While it left me pausing at night to remember on which side of the bed to get off to go to the bathroom, it developed my ability to adjust while I held within me that I am my own home and my true home is—in God.
My realization is, “Facing change, we have an opportunity to draw from and integrate the worldly and the spiritual—taking from each what strengthens, supports, and comforts.”