What is Home?

 

I’ve heard many iterations of what “home” means to people. All definitions are varied and all are relevant. But, the definition changes depending on the experience of the individual defining it. For some, home might be a scary place; an uncomfortable, dark nightmare. For others, it could be a magical, happy place. My personal definition fell more toward the happy side of the spectrum, thankfully, at least in relation to my childhood home.

But, that home is different now. It is empty. It is dark. It is lonely. It echoes.

A year ago I didn’t know how empty a home could feel when the faces associated with it were gone. I don't think I ever truly realized that a home is only a shell. No amount of upgrades can change the fact that the four walls of a home encompass a hollow building. And, given a few years left to the elements, it’s amazing how much nature starts to reclaim that shell.

Or, is it not a shell, but maybe a seed? Yes, maybe it is seed. Maybe a home is cyclic, like a plant. My childhood home flowered in my youth, in the magical days, and now it has withered and sets in a dormant mode ready to flower again. It needs water. It needs nourishment. It needs care.

But, I’ll never make the mistake again of thinking that a home is a “where”, because that would mean that it is defined by the property on which it stands. No, a home is a “what”, because it is what you make of it. It is what you put into it. It is what you give it, and what it gives back to you. Rather it’s a castle or a modest 3 bedroom 2 bath 63 year old ranch-style sitting on an acre of overgrown weeds.

 

Cement (or Cheesecake)?

Cheesecake.  It sounds good enough, two of my favorite things combined into one.  Cheese and cake.  But, there’s nothing good about it! It’s a pale brick, mixed up with some sugar, vanilla, maybe a few eggs, barely baked then flapped on a plate with a cherry on top and called ‘dessert’.  It’s disgusting.  It has the density of a meteorite.   

 

Cake is a wonderful thing, when it is baked thoroughly.  It is pure happiness on a fork; fluffy and sweet, evoking memories of happy celebrations.  Cake should be light and fun, with sugary icing and sprinkles, not scraped on a plate like a trowel full of mortar.  A proper cake is a party.  A proper cake marks a special occasion and brings a smile to everyone’s faces.  A proper cake is happy.  Cheesecake is not happy.  

 

I imagine that people who consume cheesecake do so in private occasionally, eating it slowly while in their pajamas, as if it were some unspeakable secret indulgence.  When a friend orders cheesecake from a menu, they usually get a gleam in their eye as if they are just about to commit a sin.  When they place their order, the waiter or waitress will repeat their choice “Ah, the cheesecake, excellent choice” while nodding their head approvingly.  It's as if “I’ll have the cheesecake,” was the password to some secret club.  If I decide to order an ice cream, my choice is never repeated to me nor met with such excited approval from the wait staff.

 

Cheesecake is obnoxious; it is the offensive joke of dessert. 

Modern Art

All I had learned of art in grade school wouldn’t prepare me for what I would see in my library that day.  My grandmother brought me to our favorite library, the one with giant paper mache dinosaurs, to view an exhibit of Modern Art done by students from the local university, UNLV.  I had no idea what to expect.

The exhibit was packed with people.  Packed.  There was even a table with food and a tower of champagne (I thought it was soda, but I wasn’t allowed to have any).  I was excited.  The art was nothing like I had ever seen.  Large canvases with bold, colorful strokes of paint.  Small canvases with energetic splatters of enamel layered over strips of torn paper.  I was mesmerized.  This was art?  My mind was opened.  I took note of the other attendees who stood, like I did, immersed in the interesting array of displays.  I remember wondering if any of the students had attended the exhibit and watched the people examine their artwork.   I imagined that if they did, they would feel a sense of pride.  

In my adult life, I have exhibited my own artwork in my local libraries several times.  Each time, I am reminded of walking through that first exhibit with my grandmother.  In my mind, that exhibit was fancy.  I was in a world class gallery.  And, I was.  I was in my library, and that exhibit taught me that books and art were two means to the same end – illumination. 

 

 

(Photo of "Spectrum V (1969)" by Ellsworth Kelly (American) from the Metroplitan Museum's Modern collection.  Photo by Kristina Santry-Mull)

 

The Torch

I was recently handed a torch I did not ask to carry.  This torch is both heavy, and light.  It is hot and cold.  It requires my bare hands to hold it, I can’t wear gloves.  It is both a light in the darkness, as well as a force capable of lighting fires of destruction.  The hands that passed it to me held it with integrity, honesty, and a clear, decisive vision.  I have to accept that they would not have passed this to me without seeing those same qualities in me.  I have a responsibility to wield this torch as a leader, to use it as they did – as a light.  And I will.  With all that I am, I will accept this responsibility with a humble and grateful heart.