Home
We’ve lived in the same house for twenty years this October, the artist and me, and for most of that time, our daughter Chloe, and for some of that time, our dog Ace. It’s hard to believe that Chloe has been away from home for three and a half years. It’s hard to believe that Ace has been gone since February of 2018. Of course, I do believe it, but it’s good to sit with these things or, as the case may be, to blog about these things.
I have been known to say that I would happily die in this house. I have also been known to say, we could move at a moment’s notice, that it’s just a house. And it is. But it’s not. I remember move in day pretty clearly, and how at the end of it little Chloe running to her room at the end of the hall, delightedly, not quite a year and a half old. Rob’s father would have died in September, and it’s now been twenty years without him, too.
There have been times where we’ve thought we would have to sell the house and move who knows where. Somewhere where we could change our lives. But we never have, for better or worse. We bought this house for what we would now call a song, but what then seemed a stretch for an artist and writer. The house was then at the edge of the city, and now has been submerged into the suburban sprawl of our winter city. It’s nothing special, and by now probably needs a lot of work but will instead just be patched up indefinitely.
When we bought this house, I guess I sort of daydreamed about a future where our daughter would be at a local university and came home for Sunday dinners etc. But she’s following her marvellous dreams in another city, and will likely always be away, since jobs in her chosen field (animation) won’t be found here. And this is wonderful, and of course we’re so proud and cheering her on. As often is the case, reality is much better than the daydreams you once had about how your life would go.
But here we are at twenty years! And it seems good to ask, should we stay? What is home?
We’ll be travelling this fall, again. And where we’re at is a good place to travel from, in a certain way. I mean, we can afford where we are, so that we can afford, give or take, to travel. And then, Rob has recently been invited to a prestigious residency next year for the entire month of September. I like my day job, I like the writing I’m doing. Rob is doing work he’s proud of and engaged with. And our daughter is happy and fulfilled. Seems daring to say all this as I’d hate to jinx it. But it’s been a time, these twenty years, always waiting for the rug to be pulled out from under us, bad for the nervous system, let me tell you. And I can’t say, honestly, that that feeling has gone away. An artist and a writer getting married! It’s not something I would generally recommend from a financial stand point if I can be completely honest.
But on the subject of home, here’s a poem (a lovely little rhyme there don’t you agree?):
Home
by Glenna Luschei
Dog at my pillow.
Dog at my feet.
My own toothbrush.
Which is from Poetry Foundation. Beautiful in its concision. And feel free to put in cat rather than dog. Because cats are also lovely. I sometimes imagine getting a cat, though probably not another dog, because I’m getting old and lazy and want to travel more.
Lately, and is it a coincidence, but several people who likely don’t know each other, have been bringing up one of those books that are desert island books of the heart etc for me. The book is Bachelard’s Poetics of Space. And I’ve not had it off my shelf for some time. And it’s sort of making me a bit weepy to flip through and see all my dog-ears and underlinings and exclamation points and scribbles in it. (Which is actually why I’d make a case for messing about in books like this, because you can revisit those things that delighted you once and see that they are yet delightful).
From page 15:
“The great function of poetry is to give us back the situations of our dreams. The house we were born in is more than an embodiment of home, it is also an embodiment of dreams. Each one of its nooks and corners was a resting place for daydreaming. And often the resting place particularized the daydream. Our habits of a particular daydream were acquired there. The house, the bedroom, the garret in which we were alone, furnished the framework for an interminable dream, one that poetry alone, through the creation of a poetic work, could succeed in achieving completely.”
I’ve written all but one of my books in this house and Rob has made countless paintings here. Mostly, this house has meaning for me as the house our daughter grew up in, though. I’d be happy enough to stay here, but I also know that home for us can be anywhere that we can make our stuff. There is a passage in the Bachelard (p. 63) where he says, “George Sand said that people could be classified according to whether they aspired to live in a cottage or in a palace. But the question is more complex than that. When we live in a manor house we dream of a cottage, and when we live in a cottage we dream of a palace. Better still, we all have our cottage moments and our palace moments.”
In a certain way, I think the world is past that, and we might now just wish that everyone has somewhere to live, an apartment, a tiny house, anything with a roof to keep out the elements. The number of homeless is staggering. How can we even have palace moments anymore?