Home.

HOME.

It isn't what the eye beholds or maybe what has been told. Maybe 10 walls and carpet that is peeling up in some places. Redwood planks fashioned by an artist. And a fence that has seen more time then mine spent here. There exists ashes in the chimney left from thansgivings of pure joy. It was always pregnant changing growing encompassing pain and beauty. Never worth selling but exhausting to keep. I didn't know what living in my car for two years would one day buy. And then what selling that car would one day fight to keep. The money could not gain what managed to be kept. Passion, photos, a gold nugget holder, an eviction paper framed on the wall, epson salt baths, laying on the floor with a new puppy, wailing on the floor crying your will be done, sage cleansings made from the front soil, Russian breakfasts, cold baths with the hose when there isn't propane, Sycamore branches taking out power lines only to provide wood for a fire, endless conversations at a table where Elvis sat. It isn't what eyes behold. It's a rhythm that continues to move forward. And until it's last breath with me comes, I will continue to nurture its unpredictable pulse.