Make This Place Your Home

Yeah, you already know it.
Because you're cooler than I.
You actually watch American Idol.

No, not really.


But, if you do watch, you already know this guy. I just met his music. It was during a cool-down after a gym beat-down so, since I was practically unconscious anyway, I figured I'd pay attention to the Ipod spin a bit more than usual. And what did my little ears hear?

Hold on, to me as we go 

As we roll down this unfamiliar road 

And although this wave is stringing us along 

Just know you’re not alone 

Cause I’m going to make this place your home 

Settle down, it'll all be clear 

Don't pay no mind to the demons 

They fill you with fear 

The trouble it might drag you down 

If you get lost, you can always be found 

Just know you’re not alone 

Cause I’m going to make this place your home 

Settle down, it'll all be clear 

Don't pay no mind to the demons 

They fill you with fear 

The trouble it might drag you down 

If you get lost, you can always be found 

Just know you’re not alone 

Cause I’m going to make this place your home

This summer's theme has been friendship. I didn't plan on it. I'm not even sure I could have planned on it: it has been too good to be anything other than Him all the way. 

Boy, did I need it. I needed to recover, to heal, to remember that friendship - in its best and purest form - is...well, this song. 

On the tablet of my mind, I've written a hundred times over what I've learned about friendship in the last few months. Each time, my feeble attempts go the way of the giant pink eraser, accompanied by a subconscious "tsk, tsk" - and I know I'm not even close.

Then, laying on the floor with eyes closed and body on fire, I heard them. The words I wish I'd penned, appearing at exactly the moment I was supposed to hear them.

Did you know that most writers use home not as a literal noun to indicate a structure of residence but, rather, as a metaphor for safe haven, for belonging to place...for being part of a family? Too often, home shifts in life. We move where our address dictates, and that's a reality we can't always avoid. Change your zip code enough, though, and you learn a fact you won't soon forget: Home truly is where the heart is. 

In a world of transience with little hope and lots of fear, there are still great friends left. They're the ones who promise, "You're not alone. Don't back down. I'm not going anywhere. Go ahead and blow it. Get lost in your fogs and fears: I'll hold the light. I'll be at the end of the long and narrow road. And when you're done with the demons, the troubles, the tough spots that wear you thin...come on home." 

They're the heart of wherever you are. Near or far. Now and later. 

They'll stand the test of time. 

If you've got 'em, stop looking around.

You've got the best.

You've got a place to call home.

Red-Hot Tongs of Hell Just Ain't Worth the Burn

I ran across this a bit back. Now and again, I've been re-reading it, chewing on it as I usually do with such items. I remain unsure as to what I think about it. I certainly respond to its honesty. I relate fully to some of its content; to other, not as much. And, given that it is, after all, Hurston, I think it's beautifully written.


Aside: Their Eyes Were Watching God. Stack it near the top of your bedside table queue.

What strikes me most, though, is the raw good. The brutal bad. The bruise of sin and the banner of saint. The truth that relationship is hard - most largely because we arrive broken, live redeemed, and die (hopefully) refined. Somewhere exit left on that life freeway, endings become necessary. Enemies may result. Joy will be tainted by stretches of selfishness. In that way, I suppose it really is living.

Still, as for me and my house, we'll be tossing the tongs. Too much of that living just ain't worth the burn.

What thinks you?     

I have known the joy and pain of friendship. I have served and been served. I have made some good enemies for which I am not a bit sorry. I have loved unselfishly, and I have fondled hatred with the red-hot tongs of hell. That's living.  

                                                                       Zora Neale Hurston

A Seriously Itchy Bum

I slip from workaholic to bum real easy.  ~Matthew Broderick

Okay. Not that kind of bum.

I was going to go on (and on) about the uber-relaxed pace of summer.
But then Matthew Broderick (What the French, Toast?!) took the words right out of my mouth.

As I age, I know I'm increasingly in-touch with my bum alter ego - for which I make no apologies. Which is yet another sign I'm aging. Within those two statements, you'll need to wipe away the slime of two predilections - the one to work and the one to please, equally insatiably - to find the nugget of clean. Under all that gunk grins the me who shrugs a "Eh. Why not? It's summer!" to all the otherwise "No!" requests the kids pander. Under all that gunk laughs the me who checks Amazon Prime weekly until - Slap the dog and spit in the fire! - the second season of Downton Abbey makes its debut. Under all that gunk stills the me who gets up at 5:45 to kiss The Man goodbye...and then crawls back into bed with coffee, Bible, book, and blanket.

For us, summer is only two months of time. Then it's back to the real world, whatever that is.
I used to schedule and box and border and boundary those precious 60 days with all that we could do, might see, should go. And, don't get me wrong: you can rest assured I haven't become an entirely different gal between the 20-hoo yah's and the 30-are ya kiddin' me?s. We still have goals and trips and plans and dreams. Those are all good things, don't you  know.

But the other nine months are tightrope walks between work and play, volleying betwixt nose to the grindstone and head in the clouds. Why not be a bum in June and July?

Summer- and its seriously itchy bum - will be over soon enough.