Last week gave me the distinct pleasure of focused time with family and friends. Out-of-state travel. The wedding of the babysitter who helped me raise our kids. Tucking our son safely into Plebe Summer at the United States Naval Academy. Reuniting with Nick, who has been away at summer school. Visiting old friends from Kentucky who have relocated to Nashville, and connecting nearly two decades worth of memories with up-to-date goings on in our now separate lives.
I could write a book on the Academy's Induction Day alone. The final hug with our son as a civilian. The formal swearing-in ceremony. Twelve hundred freshly-shaved heads donned in sailor caps sitting quietly in lawn chairs on the expanse of lawn in front of the giant building where important people spoke. That last half- hour together. Watching him get in line with his platoon. And then that final sight-permanently imprinted in my brain-of twelve hundred men and women marching through the arch. Into what may well be the most grueling six weeks of their lives. The pain of that separation. The sullenness of our moods that night. Of lump in throat and flop in stomach.
And then on to D.C. where we witnessed yet another July 4th celebration on the mall. Sitting on blankets underneath the stars and the rain. With soaked bodies and slightly soaked spirits. Trying to energize ourselves with one less kid in tow. And enjoy the fireworks without confessing out loud about how much we missed our sweet Ben.
My husband drove the two remaining kids in our brood back home, while Nick headed south, once again to college for a new round of summer school, and I headed west to visit two cherished friends in Nashville. Graciously both housing me and giving me the grand tour of a city I did not know, their hospitality brought something to me which I needed very much at the moment. Still suffering sharp pangs of homesickness for my son, the plebe, I needed at that moment-but did not consciously realize nor acknowledge it at the time-the warmth of the cocoon of home. Of familiar friends and familiar shared pasts. Of deep-seated memories. Of laughter. Recognized southern accents (something I have not heard much of in these past five years in Connecticut). Of hanging out in jammies over breakfast. Of watching the wedding video of their son, a wedding I regret having had to miss, and crying together over its tenderness. And rejoicing in its promise of a bright future for two terrific newlyweds. Of meeting their new grandchildren. And catching up with their now-grown daughter and her new husband.
And on to the wedding of our dear Hannah. Now twenty-something and movie-star gorgeous. Thin as a noodle and looking more than smashing in her white fitted gown, veiled head and drawn-up hair with perfect make-up revealing none of the t-shirted and blue-jeaned past when she protected my kids while I dated my husband. Eating wedding feast burritos-a Hannah favorite-with her older siblings brought a floodgate of memories, as we noshed on chips and sipped on wine while catching up with every important detail of our lives.
This weekend reinforced the notion of home for me. It helped me realize more than ever that the intergenerational transfer of family ties-and of deep friendships-do not happen by chance. Or by legal transfer of title. Transfer of warmth and love through generations happens by the simple yet thoughtful acts built into the daily rhythms of life which, through years of repetition, hard work and discipline, grow into something powerful.
Not all families survive the marriages of our children. The in-laws sometimes hate the outlaws. The mother-in-laws sometimes buck heads with the daughters or the sons. Not all friendships survive hundreds of miles of geographical separation. Dinner dates are fewer and far between. Celebrations of life's important events are sometimes missed. Catch-up phone calls are delayed. Birthdays are forgotten.
But it is this thing we call home that is the most important thing of all. Not the physical home to be sure. Homes come and homes go. Upholstery fades and the china breaks. But the substance of home remains embedded into our cores in a way that can not easily be forgotten or ignored. It is the smells. The visuals. The colors. The accents.
The hugs. The time spent. The sacrifices to personal issues made. Meals get shared and photos get exchanged. Lives get caught up on.
It is this that sustains us. That allows us to find and follow the joy.
I'm getting ready to take another trip this weekend. This time to see my aging mother. And meet up with my brother and my sister and their kids. To clean out the family home where we all grew up in order to move her into smaller and quieter quarters. One with wheelchair access and a handicapped sign in her own little spot in the parking lot. The circle of life goes on. Intergenerational transfer of love. Of care. Of yet another way to define home.
As you travel this summer to visit family and friends, I hope that you, too, fulfill your yearnings for home. In whatever way you define it.
Godspeed.
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