No Place Like Home

So the author of '100 Things To Do Before You Die' has sadly done just that, at home, only half way through his list. Dave Freeman recently told a friend 'Spending all your time hunting for Eden, or at least a really cool party, can ruin paradise for you. Sometimes I just look at my plants and wonder: why do I do all this travelling when all this beauty is right here in my garden?' Do you ever feel like that - or if you are at home full time with the children does paradise feel like a prison sometimes?

We have been rootless for so many years, and my longing for a place to call home is so deep that I have to work hard to enjoy the 'home for now', the everyday moments as the children are growing from babies that I will never get back again. The Welsh have a word - 'hiraeth' which can't be translated into English. An approximation would be 'homesickness' or 'longing for home' - maybe it's hardwired into my Celtic DNA. Maybe I'd just like to choose my own curtains. There never has been a 'somewhere over the rainbow', a nursery I decorated myself, or a doorpost where I've notched their growth each year. Maybe I've wanted these things too badly - yes, we are back to lightening up again.

I ran over a squirrel last night (this is probably why the pilot insists on driving when he's home). The toddler's approach to potty training is gung-ho and his carseat was drying out after shampooing (oh the glamour). A simple seat belt was no match for his ingenuity, and half way through the journey he broke free. Poor squirrel never stood a chance as he zigzagged indecisively in the middle of the lane - normally I would have braked hard but the toddler's safety won out. There are small creatures all over the roads at the moment - pea brained pheasants and grouse with a death wish, squirrels stocking up for the winter - it's hard to avoid them but I still felt horrible.

'Is it dead?' the six year old asked wide eyed. She could teach Bergmann a thing or two about death fixation at the moment. I hope so - wounded would be worse. Life in the country can be pretty tough. So can life anywhere. I watched an amazing bio pic of Ella Fitzgerald last night - as she lay dying after a brave battle with diabetes she reflected on why she had been so popular for so long. She said there were plenty of better singers. Millions would disagree. 'It's the songs,' she concluded. 'People love the songs.' Yet another masterclass in the modesty of genius. Life's short. Let's make this a good one.

TODAY'S PROMPT: Is it human nature to always think the grass is greener, so seek out the novel, to chase experiences? As we seek our path in life, juggling career and family, how can we keep our children grounded, rooted, happy? Is 'home' geographically fixed or is it a sense of security that you can take with you? Why not take ten minutes with a notebook and think about your idea of home. There are many different routes to the same spiritual destination - if everyone practiced the same humility and generosity of spirit Fitzgerald showed do you think we could find paradise in our own backyard? In the end, if the tough times when we struggle to write, and live, make us stronger and appreciate what is on our doorstep, that's no bad thing. This is what Dorothy learnt from the red shoes, and what I'm beginning to understand - our strength is within us and only we have the ability to make our dreams come true. Do you think we overcomplicate things - in our writing and our lives? Are you happy where you are, or are you journeying still? Is there really no place like home?