Coming Home.

I thought about writing a short, clever, witty, beautiful entry with which to ease my charming readers back into my internet psyche. I thought that would be a great idea. But I have too much to say. So... too bad.

For the past six months, I've been singing P Ditty/Dirty Money's "Coming Home." (usually splitting parts with the incomparable Shannon, my darling Lawrence roommate.) (For the record, I love Smokey Robinson's "Tears of the Clown." Sorry Ditty.)

Anyway, all of a sudden, I AM home. Or sort of.

They say that Home is where the Heart is. Those with itinerant hearts, therefore, have a scenic tour which they call Life.

But for now, this is home:

Here is the house I grew up in (and in which I am once again nesting. For those who are curious, no, I don't have a plan yet, and no, I have no idea how long I'm staying here. Much like my true love of getting lost on highways and byways, I have no problem skipping off the map of An Orderly Life from time to time. I have found that there are memorable adventures waiting in the caves and in the mountains and in the industrial towns that weren't in the pre-approved itinerary.)

So what does it mean to come Home, when Home, for the time being, is Atlanta, Georgia?

First and foremost: things change as they stay the same.

Mother, closet interior design fiend who fruitlessly denies her talent while creating cool, classy Southern-tinged decor on the budget of a small upstart community theatre, has attacked the Living Room. Around Christmastime (read: my last visit "home"), I came home to find a whitewashed and re-envisioned Den.

This time, she's re-created the front room, determined to move the family "hang out" from the south side of the house to the north side of the house, where we get more natural light. So she moved the television. (Genius tactic.) Here are some pics of the new room, not quite complete.

It is a room with character like my mother: brilliant, classy, subtle, bright spots here and there that sneak out when you least expect them. See the orange spine of a book on Tuscany, or the red jersey of my little brother's soccer days? Mountains of books (many of which are mine, deposited here last summer during my I-have-decided-to-take-up-simple-living-for-one-year-so-here's-all-my-stuff,-mom! phase, and over which we will bargain, bid, and arm wrestle when I decide to reclaim them for my own living space...but God only knows when that will be) blend seamlessly into the decorations. Books ARE decorations, for the room, for the mind, for the soul.

Coming Home, here, also means FAMILY TIME! (Dear Lucky Stars, thank you, verily, for making my family witty and classy and smart and clever and talky and funny and precious and dear. It makes them much easier to love.) The serendipity of living "in community" for a year, sharing a car, a bathroom, a budget, a life, forsaking all "free time", before moving home into that nebulous place of independence-under-my-father's roof is not lost on me. So I am well prepared for togetherness. On Sunday, July 3rd, we drove the hour out of the city to Rutledge, Ga (read: farm country), home of the annual SUNFLOWER FESTIVAL.

And we broiled ourselves in the sun.

And we posed for pictures with gardens that grow in the full sun we'd love to have in our yard.

And we picked SUNFLOWERS!

$15/bucket!!

What a perfect welcome back to the land of sweet iced tea and peaches and accents thick like molasses and old timey manners and Southern Belle sass.

Coming Home means fresh fruit in my yogurt. I didn't take a picture, because my food photography isn't up to snuff, but believe me, raspberries and blueberries and strawberries in your vanilla yogurt = good morning.

Coming Home means "Yanni: Live at the Acropolis" or Fleetwood Mac or "Finding Neverland" playing ad infinitum. Loudly. Wonderfully.

Coming Home means mosquitoes. 'Skeeters. Flying Teeth. Beware the threat of dusk and get thee inside. It doesn't matter that the backyard looks like a fairy-tale garden (mom and dad have been hard at work here, too). If you value your blood and want it to stay put, flee to the safety of the screened-in porch. Sit here, and you can enjoy the sunflowers.

Coming Home means rejuvenate. Regroup. Relax (for just a little bit). Re-envision the future. Reboot the job search. Read some of those books lying about (my latest venture: Geraldine Brooks' "People of the Book.")

Coming Home means Re-Design my wild and precious life. After all, I only get one.

We're Decorating...

Mom is in Atlanta, repainting the Den from top to bottom (as in: painted over the red brick that houses the fireplace, painted all the walls, painted the built-in bookshelves, painted the ceiling, and is currently painting the crown moulding.)

Despite my limited income (like: "$25/week stipend" limited...), she has me dreaming up all sorts of future decorativeness.

Half of me blames the genes I've inherited from my mother.

The other half blames Anthropologie.

If only...

Welcome Home, Little Girl.

I'm bursting. There's so much that's been happening. But let me first say:

It's nice to be home.

Granted, the outrageous humidity level in Atlanta makes me feel like I'm swimming. During the drive home from the airport, with the windows down and the radio blasting and my two brothers cracking jokes, I could feel my skin and hair absorbing the moisture like thirsty camels. Forget altitude adjustment. When I get back to Colorado, it's going to take me 3 weeks to get my hair straight again. When I start exclaiming that I feel like I'm drowning every time I take a breath, my brothers look at me and say, "What? This? This is nothing."

And then we pulled in the driveway. Mom and Dad were sitting on the porch listening to the Yanni:Voices CD I burned for them. (side note: Nathan Pacheco, yes, I will marry you.)

Home.

You know that feeling when every cell in your body seems to exhale, unexpectedly, at the same time? That's the feeling I had. And then I smelled the jasmine growing on the deck,

and the big magnolia out back,

and mom brought out chips and guacamole from my favorite Atlanta mexican restaurant (side note: Willy, of Willy's California Style Burrito Bar, yes, I will marry you), and heard the thump thump thump of my puppy's tail against the wicker furniture.

Home.

You know one of my favorite things about being home? Books.

I amass books. I devour them, and then keep them, stacking them or lining them up or squirreling them away. And do you know why? Because my mother does the same thing. As I walked around the house, greeting it after months of being away, I realized that they are everywhere. Everywhere. Absorbed into the decor of the living room,

standing in as a support system for the painting in the den,

challenging the Tower of Babel in the front hall.

I even found my Gardner's: Art through the Ages textbook,

which was not, as I had thought, tucked away in my closet, but had rather been unearthed and put to use.

It seems my mother, like myself, likes to have books around. They remind us what we've read, what we've learned, what we promised ourselves we'd learn more of. They inspire us to keep an open mind, and (particularly the books in our room-scattered-library) show us beautiful things.

My heart beats a little faster when I see a gorgeous coffee table book, filled with pictures of castles, or fashionistas, or movie stars, or art, or shoes. (side note: Manolo Blahnik, yes, I will marry you.)

And as with many other personal idiosyncrasies (including this unruly hair), I blame my mother.

photos: LCTurner Gloriosity - Atlanta, 2010