The Daily prompt gave us this to work with…
Write down the first words that comes to mind when we say . . .
. . . home.
. . . soil.
. . . rain.
Use those words in the title of your post.
As cliché’s go, “Home is where the heart is” would probably be over used. It’s also very true. Hence the cliché part of it. When I think of my home, I think of the clutter in my dining room. All my tins in the lounge. All the very old things I have here. Things that carries experiences and memories from simpler times. Times when people actually cared. When they stayed together. When things could be fixed. Or, in the case of many of my older pieces of furniture, painted over. Paint I painstakingly removed to bring the natural wood to it’s full glory. When I think of my home, it’s a place of rest. Of solace. I know where everything is. I know it’s smells. It’s creaks and sounds. I know which side rain comes from. I hear all my window chimes go crazy when the wind starts blowing just so. It’s also a place of solitude. Even when I still had my kids around, this was just my house. They were temporary lodgers. it might sound bad saying it like that, but I’ve always known my kids would leave me. That’s as it should be. So I created a space I could be happy in, alone. A place that suited my needs first and foremost. And even after all these years, the thought of moving anywhere else, and leaving my house for other people to live in has never even crossed my mind. I think a lot of who I am is invested in my home. It’s not just a house. It’s the place where I found myself again. The place that saw me through the most difficult years of my life. The place that always welcomed me, when there seemed to be nowhere else I was welcome. The one place that never rejected me – not my body, or my mind, my sharp tongue, my soul. It has accepted me, and we’ve grown accustomed to one another.
Earth. The place we live on. That was graciously extended to us for temporary use. The place we seem to insist on destroying. We’ve become legion. And I don’t think there’s enough soil on earth to feed every mouth that needs to be fed. So, we encroach every singe piece of earth. We exploit it for our own uses – because humans are more important to anything else, not so? We are at the top of the foodchain. Nothing kills us. We kill everything. G-d made us boss over everything on earth. I doubt He had quite this mess in mind when He created us. Suffice to say, I prefer nature to humans. I’m not a nut. I have no idea which bird sounds how, or which tree is called what. I just try my best to live with the creatures I share space with. In a way that works for all of us. So, I have no grass on my lawn. I have termites. I have no fruit on my trees, I have birds. Humans will be long gone. And then Mother Earth can rest and rebuild herself to her former glory. I hope we leave enough for her to manage that.
Life. Rain. Things don’t grow as well with tap water as they do with rainwater. Hosing off your driveway, with the water running down the street does not sound the same as when rainwater does that. Rain dripping from the eaves are both a mournful and glad sound – strange as that may seem. Rain falling on a tin roof though – a sound that never fails to remind me of days spend in a hooch in Iraq. With mud clogging up everything, and an unexpected umbrella – so I don’t get wet. When it rains here everything perks up. Turns green in a day, lifts their heads. Rain brings life. And to me, it brings sweet, sad memories.
Home. Soil. Rain.
Things we always take for granted.
Things we can never do without.