Coming Home

I am in my parents home, the place they've lived for 44 years. They have changed, and I have changed. In the quiet of the evening though, we always do come back to who we are. My spiritual choices have diverged from theirs in semantic terms, but I still see myself in them, the basic heart.
They gave me my locus of conviction, however it plays out on the political scene.  And we can still sit down to eat fresh dug potatoes and buttered beets, listen to 'Evening Adagios' on the stereo, and feel like we are all at home.We always do come back to who we are, and that is the miracle of love.  
The physical changes of aging are a reality for Mom and Dad,  We were able to get Mom to the Christmas concert to see her grandson in the Symphony, only by careful planning, and the use this year of a wheel chair.  But we did it, and it was worth it. At one point Mom said,"What do people without daughters do when they get old?" Well, someday I will find out.

Taking care of each other is our practice, our gift. It can be taken on with joy, or not, as the case may be. Tonight I chose joy, cooking a simple dinner. How fortunate that my parents appreciate this small gift so much.

The season of giving is upon us, and I have to figure out how to maneuver through the tricky maze of the material world. I wish I were rich, and my car didn't need a new clutch. It would seem I am not alone this year in wishing for quite basic gifts from St. Nicholas.
 
I don't like shopping, except for books.   Every year I feel more like a deer in the headlights at holiday time.  I wish fresh spuds and buttered beets were enough. Memories become everything it seems. I think I am in the right place, coming home to myself over and over again. Being with what is, graying hair, the neediness of others, the cold rain, a warm heart.