A poem by Emily Dickinson with a lovely thought of home found its way to me recently:
Eden is that old-fashioned House
We dwell in every day
Without suspecting our abode
Until we drive away
I daresay there are many unsuspected “Edens” in our lives. Our children, the little devils. Our husbands, the rascals. Our dogs–okay what happened to the steaks I just left out on the counter? Our churches. Our beauty parlors. (Did I just say “beauty parlor?”) Our book stores. Our coffee shops. And yes of course, our homes, be they Emily Dickinson’s old-fashioned house or a mid-century modern apartment.
Whether from the sprawling house at Rancho La Zaca, or from far-flung travels, or from the grocery store–maybe especially from the grocery store–I’m always oddly happy to return to my little ol’ Upper East Side flat, always there for me.
I write this also with the awareness that for many in this world home is a shack in a slum; or a tent in a refugee camp; or for the folks in the tornado-stricken Midwest and Gulf Coast, something that was there yesterday and blown away today. My heart goes out to them, and the gratitude for my “Eden,” is all the more.