Vol. 12, No. 2,856W - The American Reporter - March 18, 2006


by Cindy Hasz
American Reporter Correspondent
San Diego, Calif.

SAN DIEGO -- It is Sunday and I am in my favorite church. Holy Mount Zion, my humble casa, the home of quiet and content, of gratitude for fruit, morning papers, coffee. Simple things. Like the ordinary amazement of breathing. I am not seeking anything but what is already here.

Hasn't always been that way. Time was when there was no place called home and I couldn't find it to save my life. Not within, not without. But if home is where the heart is, then, I reckon, I must've found my heart - and just in the nick of time.

I found "home" again while trying to make it come true for others. Funny how it works that way, sometimes. First came years of drought. Then came the tornadoes, the yellow brick roads, and the poppies of oblivion. A

After disappointing wizards and not a few scarecrows and tin men and some close calls with hot air balloons, somehow I found my own way back. Forget the GPS Oz nonsense when looking for true north. It's all in the shoe leather; those red shoes sure know the way home.

Come to think of it, I got lost about the same time my inner fairy went AWOL. Rumor has it that she had a contract out on her life, which forced her underground. Rode the rails on seven continents for twenty years. But she's back and bellydancing. Hard core with the fairy dust now. Obsessive about turning pumpkins into public transportation.

So I drove to the store in a rental car. Delighted for no particular reason, I bought two dustpans for the one whose disappearance mocked me yesterday. Had me doing figure eights through the house for hours looking for it. I take those kind of things as a challenge, and will stay locked on until someone prys me loose. So now with one twist of my wand, there shall be dustpans everywhere.

Walking down the aisles, I passed on the Krispy Kremes and ran into the ex. We negotiated breakfast burritos. His Sunday offering on the table, he went to rest, to read the paper, to perch and cool off before flying back home. So come the others.

We have many peregrine souls wintering with us. In fact, we are becoming a blooming aviary. Jon and Sam, Nadine, Cynthia, Tisha, Sarah, Matt B. and Matt R., Davin, Justin, Doug.

A brother and nephew just may be holed up here soon if the tornadoes don't leave em alone. Teenagers, old people. Waifs and veterans of wars no one will ever hear about, with wounds no one will ever see. Just looking for a place to catch their breath.

Home as strange attractor: A place where chaos makes sense of itself. If things keep on this way I'll need a much bigger strange attractor.

"Have some coffee, some crepes?" "Yes, I make em." The younger men make the music. I read, write. "Come in, you are welcome." Velkomen. The band is coming for dinner. They heard Nadine is making Thai tonight. Yaki Soba and Sake in the strange attractor treehouse.

Be alone, be with us. Watch a movie. Swing on the porch. Climb the hill. Meet the horses. Be sad, be happy, be whatever you need to be. It's okay.

We are a city of refuge. Not Kansas, not the Emerald City. Augustine's City of God is a moveable city. It moves wherever we are. It is peace. It is joy. A place for change, free of fear. Most days.

It's a little bit cuckoo, like my Grandfather's clock on the wall. The ticktock is comforting not oppressive. Sounds of the honeycomb; shelter, a place of generosity, of friendship and hospitality. Royal jelly. The ex now sits in the front room, in front of a tv reading the paper. Gray head back, spectacles down on his nose. I look at him from across the room, tenderly. He has aged in the past five years - like twenty. His blue eyes are still brilliant as he describes his new home on the hill and the birds that live there. Part of him is still wandering the fields and woods of Kansas, forever six years old and happy. I suddenly realize something: He's starting to look like my grandfather, reading the paper like that. He'd never admit it but he has come here to find solace and that is a good thing. He is comforted by our history. The Web that connects us is a fragile but persistent thing. Memory, a string of pearls shines in the brief moisture of morning. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the prism of our lives passing quickly.

However long we have, it is not long. Anything else is illusion. There is no time for anything but kindness.

Our young son is making candles in the kitchen. Red, yellow, dipping wax in my crockpot. On the tiles. I am briefly angry. I let it go. I realize, through the spasms of the few anal-retentive tendencies I have, that instead of the sand castles of a child on the shore, he drips upwards the cones for his altars of light.

They illuminate his visions, mathematics of music, sacred geometry. He is an itinerant flame in the bazaars of sacred and sensual. I am so thankful his flame has not been dampened.

Finally, for so many of us pilgrims and nomads, home has become a good place to be; a Wayside Inn for weary time-travelers in and through this crazy world.

Welcomed when coming in and blessed when going out, with red shoes and fairy dust for all.

Cindy Hasz is a nurse and writer living in San Diego. She can be reached at cyn1113@aol.com

Copyright 2006 Joe Shea The American Reporter. All Rights Reserved.

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