Irony!

I wrote an essay a couple weeks ago exploring the idea of home – what it means, how it’s defined differently for different people, what emotions are tied into it …. Just brainstorming, really.

I wrote it at work under a neutral name, to avoid unwanted attention. And then, days later, I cleaned out my work computer, prompted by a higher degree of workplace protocol requirements. I put some files and photos on a flash drive, and some I emailed to myself on my personal account.

And now I can’t find it. Not in my email, not on my work computer, not on the flash drive. Not in my send folders. My witty little neutral filename is gone from my memory, rendering it somewhat less witty.

As with any lost work, after the initial panicky search, I had to walk away from the computer and mourn. I might still find it, but I needed to process it a bit to calm down. Regain perspective.

It was no masterpiece; if there were any wondrous truths laid bare, they were minor enough to be instantly forgotten. I’m fairly certain that it was an overly self-conscious, stiff draft.

Still, driving around town on my lunch break, I had to laugh.

Here’s this writing piece I have thought about for years – what is home? – and I make one lame attempt to begin to capture it, and it has vanished. As ethereal as the reality of “home” is for me now. Vague memories, aspirations, weak attempts – for both the written summary and the physical reality.

I have deep nostalgia for the place I grew up, which of course also holds traumatic and bitter memories. I’ve moved more than 30 times, and each time, I make some attempt to assemble old and newly acquired belongings: beloved books, heirloom furniture, favorite cooking tools. But there’s always something lacking. The chaos of each day lends value and life and shows me just how far I have to go to reach my dream of living the organized, cozy life I hold in my head. Every house feels unfinished. Not quite home. I’m not home yet.

There are people, of course; it’s not just about where to put books and dishes. There are my sons, whose needs drive our lives, willingly. There’s my husband, with specific and heart-felt domestic goals of his own. Now, too, there’s my mother, whose beloved couches and tables and TV and solitaire help anchor her to a new place and help her adjust to a challenging time in her life. There are in-laws and sisters and friends. There is a dog. There is life.

But as with each move I make, there is the re-knitting of old and new, comfortable and fresh, familiar and frustrating. I’m processing, and it takes a long while to reach a peace with new rhythms and driving routes and habits. The letting go of friends and habits and certainty. The disorganization of petty details as we find new routines.

Methods of maintaining memories and forwarding information through changing technology – it’s a fulltime occupation. The ubiquitous flash drive, common as Kleenex now, is new to this formerly SAHmom. Managing papers and remembering where I put things has never been a strength, however much I pride myself on logical processes and plans. With limited desktop access to my email inbox, vital information feels out of reach, dimly remembered.

I’m eager to straighten things up, find what I need, but it’s painful to realize my recent work is possibly really gone. Just like that long-ago address in a valley far, far away.