“The ache for home lives in all of us”
– Maya Angelou, American memoirist, poet, and civil rights activist

For the month of roughly April 15 to May 15, 2025, the wildbunch (two doggos and four barn cats) and I are making our ‘home’ on a rented acreage as American waterfowl hunters have settled into the Lodge. This ‘move’ marks #4 since 2018 (move #15 since 1990) and ironically enough, is just one kilometer from the first acreage that I rented for six months when I moved to this part of our beautiful province in 2020.

A couple of days ago, as I walked from the bedroom to the kitchen, I stopped on the landing to admire the sunlight streaming through the window, illuminating the living room and I couldn’t help but think, “what a homey room”.

I questioned myself in that moment as I felt like it was an odd thought to have crossed my mind given that this is a temporary space. As I stood there, in quiet reflection, thoughts of what ‘home’ truly means tickled my consciousness.

If I am being truly honest, I have likely been searching for a sense of ‘home’ since I left home – looking in vain for safety, security, stability, and peace within four walls and the hearts of men ill-equipped to protect me from myself, to absorb the restlessness that I feel and free me from it.

As I stood on that landing, for the first time in my life, I recognized that this restlessness often manifests as the creativity that leads to painting, decorating, renovations, and the countless Pinterest projects that I undertake. In the process of creating a space where I feel at home, I nest, and for a time-when these projects are complete-I am settled. But that feeling never seems to last long.

What is home? What does feeling at home really mean? Perhaps, like the concepts of peace and happiness, the more one chases, the more elusive they become . . . or maybe, it is pausing on the landing of a strange house, and realizing that I have truly loved every living room (and room), no matter how temporary, that I have created for myself in the last 10 years and that the common denominator in each space was not the furniture or art, not the stuff . . . not the who I shared the space with . . . but the common denominator was me. I am home.

As for progress on my 55 in 55 list . . . I have tried a couple new recipes (no. 6), read a couple of books (no. 8), visited my daughter and her family a couple of times (no. 14), treated myself to a couple of manicures and a pedicure (no. 51), donated a couple of books (no. 52), bought coffee for the car behind me in the Timmy’s line a couple of times (no. 53) and wrote a poem (no. 13).

A Short Poem About Coming Back to Life and Trying to Find Inspiration and Joy in Writing Poetry After Love and Loss and Other Stuff: What would I write?

If I decided to write again,
What would I write?
About a day?
About a night?
Perhaps my life?
Or a butter knife?
If I decided to write again . . .