Home Is Where The Hurt Is

Black-Eyed Susan's. Beautiful unassuming flowers that have a subtle wild attitude about them as they cluster and grow tall and slim; strutting their dark centre for all to admire. There also happens to be a great song of the same name sung by a fairly well known Canadian country singing group. It's the only single from artists Prairie Oyster that I really like. And while the subject matter focuses on the troubling issue of domestic violence, it underlines that strength within yourself and support from others is paramount. While I urge you to take a listen to the song if you are not aware of it; part of the inspiration for this entry comes from a lyric within that speaks to a woman being the first to arrive at her workplace every day and the last to leave. Home was the last place she wanted to be. I've heard many a time my own mother profess these same sentiments. It's bothersome and a bit painful to hear but at times makes sense. My father while not physically abusive; can be a real treat. And I mean that with the most sarcasm possible. Less than 24 hours ago I arrived home from a great sun filled Caribbean vacation with 3 good friends. It was one of few vacations that I have on record where I can't remember thinking that I wanted to be home. Ever. My friends joke that they have to book appointments with me weeks in advance to see them. I'm rarely in. Always out. I live in a 9 by 12 foot room. I don't make or save enough money to properly set up my own home. With clutter free, quiet rooms. Yes, plural. As in more than one room. I would spend more time in if so. Sure, we clear our own path towards the destiny we both want and deserve. I understand that. When in St. Maarten last week I was faced with entire villages stocked full with only homes screaming slums and poverty, unaware to me that it existed there. What if for these people it's as good as it gets. That's gotta hurt. Homebody. A strange little word that some pointedly clever person came up with and it stuck. What's the real definition? Are there tiers of homebodies? The ones that never see natural light. That's gotta hurt their eyes when forced to be rolled out in the ambulance. The ones who go to work 9-5 and rush home to spend their remaining existence in front of a television perfecting the dent in the couch cushion. That must get a little boring and be a pain in the backside; literally. Those who prefer intimate gatherings at dinner parties in their dining room, perhaps Saturday night movie's in with homemade popcorn or the occasional evening of playing out a board game instead of bar-hopping; all seem like a reasonable definition. Done right, I would like to think that option C shouldn't be all that hurtful. To the psyche, the body, the relationships we have with others. After all...it was probably that same clever person who coined the 'Homebody' that came up with the 'Home Is Where the Heart Is' crap.

Toodles