The description of home at the end of this work is my experience of what Buddha termed the field. As a gift to you, the words in this essay are imbued with the energy of home. Buddha’s discussion of enlightenment and the field may be found in book three of the Joy Chronicles A Wish is Granted.
This morning I imagined myself sitting in the old, green leather chair that sat in the corner of our front room for years and fell into a reverie of the house furnishings that I grew up with. I pictured the diamond-shaped clock on the wall that thunked every so often. We all grew used to this idiosyncrasy and I only noticed it when I returned home for a visit.
When I was a teenager, I got to select the cherry furniture in my purple bedroom (I painted it that color myself.) Even after he left home, the desk in my brother’s bedroom still contained his childhood and adolescent memorabilia—a yo-yo, a deck of Old Maid cards, Pick Up Sticks, letters home from college and a few baseball cards, although not the Mickey Mantle one that somehow disappeared.
The junk drawer in the kitchen, once you sorted through the hundreds of twist ties Mom kept, was always good for discovering something interesting: a small piece of petrified wood, a brightly colored knife that had been shuffled around in there forever, old scissors, screwdrivers and undetermined, mysterious what not.
She never used them, but I loved to admire the pretty hand me down dishes that Mom kept in the unreachable, unless you used the fold out step stool, top cupboards in the kitchen.
The drawers in Mom’s bedroom dresser held many fascinating items to rummage through when I was younger: a bottle of sand with water in it that I’m sure they brought back from Florida, a pretty decorative tin crammed full of different kinds of buttons, scarves, old watches and keys that belonged to Dad and even his dog tags.
As I returned my focus to sitting in the chair and looking out the window at our farm, a feeling of stillness and comfort settled around me. Everything that I remembered, except for the tin of buttons and the piece of petrified wood, is gone now. Although memories of those objects helped to evoke the feeling of home, I realized that the peace I felt did not originate from them . . . I am home.
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