Two-Faced Home-Space

I just got home from yoga class, my cat jumped up into my lap purring, and I’m listening to the bubbling of bacon as it cooks in the skillet for BLT sandwiches for dinner. Tonight half the sky is a majestic cobalt blue of tangled storm clouds and the other half carries the light in the open blue along soft tufts of sporatic clouds.  The sky has been fighting itself all day.

There is something about the two-face sky that feels so wild and honest.  Summer light pours over the grass below my kitchen window, golden and warm.  The dark frenzied sky directly above it contrasts so sharply; like a glare that spins into your vision when turning a blade in the light, the sky seems metallic and instant.  You can almost taste it.

It makes me feel young and old at the same time, and, above all else, alive. Gazing over the spectacle of light, I also find this quiet realization that Oregon is now home.  I am at home here finally.

The plants on my balcony know it's home.  The basil and chives reach without wondering, the blue flowers in the terra cotta pots just know: Where they are is home.  Charlie the cat doesn’t wonder; he knows we belong to him, along with everything else in this house that his paws can touch.  The furniture and walls have settled.  The pictures on the walls all radiate their purposes inward to surround us in home-ness.  I somehow made it home too.

Like the split sky is still whole, I can still "be," completely, with solid intent, as both Idaho and Oregon fill up portions of my heart-space.  Before I had felt suspended, caught between a breath in and a breath out, and then somehow, somewhere along with line, I started breathing without realizing it.  It's silly, really, how long such a simple realization can take.