Peanut Brittle and Blooms

The other morning, I was out walking Gunny Goo when a song came on. I don't remember the name of it now, but it was something about gratitude and feeling lucky.

The sun was just beginning to peek around the corner as we turned onto the next street. The world was quiet. The birds were waking up. The air was perfect.

And all at once, I was overwhelmed with gratefulness.

Tears filled my eyes.

Thank goodness for sunglasses.

For a moment, I felt completely present. Completely at peace. Completely certain that I was exactly where I needed to be.

Now, it hasn't always been like that.

Every few years, I get the itch.

You know the one.

The feeling that something needs to change. Not because life is bad, but because something inside you starts stretching.

For the last twelve years or so, that itch has usually shown up in the form of houses.

Now, before you think we move every other Tuesday, we've actually only moved three times. But somehow every time we have a baby, we end up moving too. So apparently babies and real estate are connected in my brain.

I've spent a lot of time trying to figure out why.

And I think I've finally landed on it.

I've always been looking for home.

Not necessarily a house.

A feeling.

That feeling of belonging.

That feeling of exhaling.

That feeling of walking through the door and knowing this is where you are meant to be.

For me, home smells like lilacs.

Growing up, our neighbors had the biggest lilac bushes you have ever seen. Every spring the scent would drift through the neighborhood, and to this day one breath of lilacs can transport me right back to childhood.

Home smells like chocolate chip cookies.

Home smells like melted butter.

That one might actually be my favorite.

Every Christmas, my mom made peanut brittle from scratch. I didn't like peanut brittle then, and I still don't like peanut brittle now, but every December I would sprint home from school hoping that today would be the day she started making it.

The second I walked through the door, I would know.

The smell of butter melting in that giant pot would hit me before I even saw her.

That smell meant Christmas was coming.

That smell meant my mom was in the kitchen.

That smell meant home.

And maybe that's the thing.

Maybe home isn't the structure.

Maybe it's the memories attached to it.

The smells.

The sounds.

The moments.

The people.

Because when I think about home, I don't actually think about a particular house.

I think about my parents.

I think about safety.

I think about warmth.

I think about laughter.

My parents have always been home to me.

And I find myself wondering if that's what my children will remember.

Not the square footage.

Not the countertops.

Not whether we had the perfect backyard.

But the moments.

Maybe they'll remember me standing in the kitchen stirring something in my teal Rachel Ray Dutch oven.

Maybe they'll remember Matthew standing next to me as my sous chef.

Or at least pretending to be.

Maybe he'll have a glass of wine in his hand while simultaneously watching a YouTube video on how to fix something.

Some husbands watch sports.

Some husbands watch questionable things.

Mine watches "how-to" videos.

I can see it so clearly.

I'm making dinner.

The kids are running through the house.

Someone is arguing.

Someone is laughing.

Matthew is half paying attention to me and half paying attention to a video about replacing a water heater.

And somehow all of it feels perfect.

Messy.

Loud.

Beautiful.

Home.

I hope that's what they remember.

Because lately, I've started feeling the itch again.

Not because anything is wrong.

Actually, quite the opposite.

We have built a beautiful life here.

The kids love their school.

Our neighbors are wonderful.

We have friendships.

We have community.

We have roots.

This house has been very, very good to us.

But I can feel myself beginning to press against the edges.

It reminds me of that scene in Schitt's Creek when Alexis tells David she thinks she has outgrown her pot.

Or the Genie in Aladdin trying to squeeze himself out of that tiny box, elbows and knees everywhere, pushing and shoving because he has become too big for the space he's in.

Not because the box is bad.

Simply because he was never meant to stay there forever.

That's what this feels like.

Not dissatisfaction.

Expansion.

For this next chapter, I find myself dreaming of a little more room to breathe.

Not hundreds of acres.

Just enough.

Enough room for the kids to run.

Enough room for a garden.

Enough room for all the elements.

Earth.

Wind. (Obviously.)

Fire. A fire pit, of course.

And water.

Not a pool, much to my children's dismay.

I picture myself standing at the kitchen window with a cup of coffee, looking out over a garden that desperately needs weeding but is growing anyway.

I picture trees.

I picture birds.

I picture space.

I picture gratitude.

I don't know if we'll build.

I don't know if we'll find an old house begging to be loved back to life.

But I do know this.

The land will call to me.

Just like this house did.

And when it's time, I'll know.

Until then, I'm going to keep taking my morning walks.

I'm going to keep drinking my coffee.

I'm going to keep soaking in the blessings that already surround me.

My children.

My husband.

My family.

My friends.

My neighbors.

My community.

My home.

Because maybe home isn't something we're searching for after all.

Maybe home is something we're continually creating.

And maybe, just maybe, Matthew will finally let me plant a lilac bush or two.