Once again I returned home to San Francisco after weeks away, late at night due to a much-delayed flight. After grabbing a cab (no one anxiously awaiting my arrival at the airport), lugging my (always-too-heavy) bag up the stairs by myself, examining the (non-existent) contents of the refrigerator, and pouring myself a (needed)glass of wine, I breathed a big old sigh of relief, exhaustion, happiness and fear all rolled in one.
I love coming home. I love seeing my stuff and crawling into the nooks and crannies I think of as my nest. When my kids were little, we often read a book that had a mother bird who was forced to move her nest several times, yet sang the ditty, "I love my house. I love my nest. In all the world my nest is best." I made up a melody for that mother bird's song, and I now goofily hear it in my mind when I come home.
My home, my nest, is filled with objects I love living with. They give me visual pleasure, and despite the tiny size of my post-marriage apartment, I am proud to find my place as a representation of me. My artist-made bed with its scavenged headboard and voluptuously decadent bedclothes beckons. While I am the first to enjoy a rousing night of great fun with a man in this bed, I also love having this delicious bed all to myself, embracing me in a different way, a way that feels like taking care of myself. Truly home. Alone.
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