I was at my friend’s house. It was an autumn afternoon and we were making cookies. Her cat was in the window box, next to a few plants that were an intense green, alive with light. Hanging near the window was a strand of multicolored glass beads that shone so brightly… I stood there, lumping dough onto a cookie sheet while my friend sang P-Funk in the background and sent up clouds of evergreen scented pot smoke which mixed with the smells of baking and oregano and dryer sheets. Suddenly it was a very homesick moment. It was not an ache for anyplace I have ever been; just someplace I wanted to get to.

That night I lay awake plotting my future garden. Thinking about color schemes and cross-pollination, fields of Echinacea and garlic braided in the kitchen. I dreamt of a place all my own, with a wood burning stove, my own office and a small beagle curled up at the end of my king sized bed. This sudden ache was not really for material things, rather a certain feeling of rightness, wholeness. A warm, fuzzy place with good smells and vivid colors. Someplace that belonged to me and me alone.

I have modified this dream often, but the essence is always the same. I suspect that many people lay awake nights, wondering what the perfect situation would be, and that it comes layered in memory-smells and textures that can not be conveyed with words. I guess I have always wanted a home that felt like home to anyone who came there, a place I could invite people into, like warm slippers on the feet.

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