Not My House

I hate staying at different places, even if they are familiar. Tonight is my turn to babysit my daughter’s hound while she’s on vacation. You may ask why I don’t just take him to my house? Well let’s just say George isn’t very disciplined and will chase anybody or anything he doesn’t know. I don’t have a fence around my yard and the intersection in front of my house is very busy with truck, car, and pedestrian traffic. So I’ve packed up my stuff for the night to stay at a very comfortable, yet not my house.

Over here it’s even hotter outside than my place, because my daughter’s yard has little shade. So I’m stuck inside with my fan and her AC staring at the popcorn ceiling thinking about how nice it would be to have my toes dangling in some river water. But I can’t complain too much, I mean I’m the one that moved away from the river. The one that cut all contact off with my past. The one that assumed a new identity even though doing so might not have been justified. Not many are brave enough to assume a new identity, a new persona. But I felt the direction I was going wasn’t taking me anywhere. But through all those years of running, it became obvious I was most comfortable just being myself again.
​
So over the last decade or so I’ve been picking up the pieces of who I am. Giving them a real good looking at you know. And for the most part I’ve made peace with myself. Accepting my weaknesses and turning my sadness into joy. Not a one of us is perfect and I doubt very seriously if we can ever be made that way. So I look at some of my antics and simply shake my head. Knowing I could do better if I’d tried. You see, that’s where forgiveness comes in. Looking deep inside yourself and seeing what’s really there. And with no flawed judgement giving yourself a pass. Learning from your mistakes and doing better. Yes, at times this doesn’t seem to be my house. But it's the place all the same I call home.