Chickens Come Home to Roost

Sometimes in life, it’s time to come home. In this ever changing world with fast paced technology, airplanes that connect distant countries, emails that defy space and telephones that travel lightly wherever we go – it is easy to forget that there is no place like home.

What does home mean to me? Home is a tone of voice that brings back a memory, a smell that makes me instantly hungry, a sense of being found after getting lost. Home is finding a book that speaks your own words, a cup of coffee with melted cheese, an argument with the absolute certainty that things will eventually be okay. Home is all at once the safest place to be and the scariest place especially when you are not at peace. Home is sitting in silence knowing that time will help heal old wounds. Home transforms time, a parent becomes child, child becomes parent, parent becomes child. Home is in each person that endures a life time’s journey. How many withstand the passage of time? How many have the capacity to hold, reinvent, rebuild, negotiate, do therapy, rediscover, come back or set free, forgive but not forget, get close, closer and closer yet? How many are home to me?

Reconnecting with a person from home is a scary thing. It feels like a roller coaster that you have rode on before. While you remember the excitement, fun and surprise of the ride (each time, every time) you also remember the anxiety, fear, agony (a good roller coaster, I refer to, you know, like the Cyclone at Coney Island?) The loud, crackling wooden tracks, the rumble and seemingly unstable beams (the “don’t make them like they used to” frames) peeling paint, can’t see the top, the peak, how steep is this really? You know the kind? Every turn slams your hip into the side of the tiny old car, the metal bar grabbing at your whitened knuckles, red. You scream and wonder, was that me? Where is that coming from? You are a child again. Your own free will dissolves and you are held hostage by the ride. Thrilling, passionate, rocket energy. Many beginnings, many ends. Each time!

Coming home with another person is when two people have gone on every other ride in the amusement park (or so it seems). The carousel, the bumper cars, the flume, the swings… And somehow, the rumble in the background grows louder and louder until both of you decide that it’s time. Time to take another ride. Because even though the damn thing is so overwhelmingly scary, it is the only ride, that from way up there, you get a chance to feel and experience the whole thing. The whole thing.

Malcolm X was silenced for 90 days by the Nation of Islam because of his “chickens come home to roost” speech in response to Kennedy’s assassination. There is something about coming home that is threatening. It is only at home that ourselves we must face. And for those of you out there that have already begun the journey, you know that home can be ugly. But, while I often prefer to close my eyes so as not to face the worst parts of me– with my eyes closed, I also lose the chance to see my unique beauty.

So, join me, this Spring. Come home with some body. And, for those of you who are seriously considering – Here are a few friendly words of advice from a gal who has gotten on many times. Don’t forget to hold on. Enjoy the ride. And lastly, remember – there are very few roller coasters out there, with those “they don’t make ‘em like they used to” wooden frames – so, choose your partner wisely. Happy Homecoming!

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