Footprints of innocence dressed in a four-letter word

Home is the place of safety and support I found within while sharing the single-bedroom apartment assembled in 70s cabinetry with Jax, my beloved green-eyed, brown, and silver tabby, becoming three after years of just us two when my husband moved in 2017.

It is the picturesque oak tree tunnel of glossy, emerald leaves emerging from the entangled, slender, dark branches, creating a canopy of shelter on Honey Trail.

It was the comfort of my neighbor's living room lights when I stared out the sliding glass door at the building across. Now a dear friend, I first introduced myself to her in the parking lot as she held her smooth-skinned pumpkin.

Home is where I sit most mornings, on the corner of Ygnacio Valley and Bancroft Road, in the wake of late winter, where the geese return to lay their eggs, calling out in concert on the rooftops.

It is where come spring, adorable baby geese wrapped in yellow fluffy down, with their long necks and triangular bills, parade behind their mother, nibbling at the grasses with their father in the caboose, ready to give a cautionary hiss. 

Home is the route from here to my mother's house. If I close my eyes, my body recognizes the direction and rotations of the backroads as I pass streets and neighborhoods of childhood friends and ghosts of lovers past.

It is the first and second churches where my friends and I congregated in cars, smoking cigarettes, listening to The Notorious B.I.G. sing "Big Poppa," and waiting for plans to appear.

It is Walnut Heights Elementary where I hung on the wide ring-shaped monkey bars humming as my body swayed from hoop to hoop, the rusty smell of iron and tanbark, and the copper stain on my palms. 

Home is the subtle wave of nostalgia as I pass Rudgear Park, where I ran with the neighborhood kids flying on swings as our parents played a "friendly" game of softball. Or those reckless juvenile days when my girlfriends and I would drive by to spy on our latest crush playing basketball.

Home is the color of a Good Humor creamsicle bar, as Calvin, our cat, would stretch out on the warm hood of my white 2-door 96' Honda Civic parked in the driveway at 2113 Londonderry Ct.

It is my teen bedroom, turned guest room, outfitted with my mother's paint supplies, an ironing board, my grandmother's lamps on either side of the bed, and a domed glass cabinet of cherished collectibles and hand-painted porcelain dolls I crafted with precision. 

It is the two plastic bins hidden in the closet defending proof of my youth, persuaded by faded and worn ticket stubs to Brooks & Dunn and Clay Walker at the Concord Pavilion and 49er games at Candlestick Park with my dad. 

It is the solid High School Yearbook capturing community spirit and scribbled words of adoration, preserving timeless memories of our Home of the Knights.

Home is the road I walk from Londonderry Ct. up through the charismatic community along Rudgear Road, recognizing homes where friends once lived and cul-de-sacs where the sound of innocence collected. 

It is the charming four-lane community pool I pass that held social soirees and daily summer swim practice and competition—Home of the Seals. And how I sometimes now sneak through the locked gate, sit at the lip of the pool, and dip my feet in the cool, calm waters. 

Home is the last Court on the left; rounding the corner, confronted with clouds of memories, arriving at 2374 Benham Court, where life began.

It is our burnt orange tabby, Clause, lying side by side with Zorba, our Oreo precious patched cat, on the concrete walkway leading to our double front doors. 

It is the Van Dyke's and Scott's on either side of our blue-trimmed two-story home and the Channing's across the street. 

Home is the happiness you hear staggering down the street, footprints of innocence dressed in blue, and the wind whispering wistfulness.

It is the fish wire tied to the large Oak tree in the open space across the street, a flight path for the spry LEGO airplanes that we slide across the smooth, slippery surface through my brother's second-story window. 

Home is the rolling hills behind Benham Ct. and the way the metal gate creaks and squeaks as you cross into the home of the call of the red-ringed blackbird, the mourning doves flapping their wing whistle, bluebirds fluttering in their pale and pulsating blues, toads croaking at twin ponds loop, cows grazing on the vista, and coyotes howling at midnight. 

Home is a quiet mountainous place resting within. It is a place of steadiness and stability as the sun rises and sets and the temperature and weather change from peaceful, clear skies to stormy thunder and lightning. 

It is the native soil of the sureness of being and sense of safety standing throughout each day and across time—a place of nourishment and rest, grand and graceful, to meet all the changing events of life coming and going.

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Writing Prompts and Reflection

I am curious to hear from you. Tell me about what home is to you. What comes up for you as you read through my scenes? What memories represent a sensation of home?

Some potential jump-off lines to ignite your writing:

Home is

My body recognizes the direction

Native soil of sureness

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Grab a pen and paper or your favorite journal. Begin with one or more of the prompts. Use them as a starting point, repeat them throughout your writing.

Set your timer. Write for 15 minutes, pen never leaving the page.

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Intuitive flow writing is a practice of listening, noticing, and trusting what arises. The prompts are an invitation, a way into what is true for you. So much of our writing practice is being present, dropping out of the mind and into our bodies and creative unconscious, and creating space for what is ready to move through.