at home for real comfort.
I'm busy. Too busy, I think. Staggering into the house today after an out-of-town conference, I collapsed on the library couch and didn't move for an hour. I didn't sleep - I just stared at the room - at my books and the fireplace and the pictures and the piano. Lovely piano. I'm home, I told myself. Home has to be the most comforting word there is.
I'm such a homebody. Terribly so, I'm afraid. I think I get it from my Dad. His idea of the perfect night is eating my mother's homemade soup before retiring to his recliner to listen to us kids talk and laugh and make fun of each other until bedtime. Like father, like daughter. Give me slippers and sweet tea and let me roam Freeman House all day and I'm happy as a lark.
Today I dusted and brought out fall decorations and folded socks and made my Mediterranean Pot Roast. I piled onto the bed with my steaming plate and watched episodes of To the Manor Born. It was heaven. Being among my pots and music and garden and books and pet allows me to breathe again, somehow. What sort of crime do you have to commit to be placed on house arrest? I might consider it. For me, house arrest would be perfection, not punishment.
So I suppose it's all starting up again, isn't it: school, work, sports. Obligations, obligations, obligations. I welcome the passing of summer vacation but vow to spend as much time as possible at home. Until then, I'll count the hours until the weekends, when my time is filled with songs at the piano and homemade dinner and twinkling stars and pecans falling like raindrops around Freeman House.
Oh home, I've missed you so. It's been too long. It's so good to be back.