Home. . .

I am back home. That's about all I can say about the whole deal right now; intense, immense emotions coursing through me that I can't keep up, can't type fast enough, can't formulate words to capture. . . but one thing is for sure: in spite of the waterfall of memories, emotions, of things I can't even define, it feels right, to be here, right now.

The move went better than anticipated; I didn't have much left to move in the end because I'd already made endless trips back and forth over the past few weeks, and Penny & Jim came up a few more times to help me with a few loads of smaller furniture pieces. But for Saturday's big move, I wasn't able to round up many people as I'd hoped to help me. The "crew" consisted of me, my mom (who insisted on "supervising" and unpacking—no big moving, thanks to the trauma I subjected her to last time . . .she's still seeing a massage therapist, six months later . . . I owe her, huge. . .), my big bro., Mikey, Penny and Jim, and my sister, Gretchen. . . as enthusiastic and hard working as they all are, I was skeptical we'd be able to pull it off. . .

However, on Friday morning, on my way to a meeting (already late, thanks to my condition-with-no-cure: onemorethingitis), my cell phone rang. I didn't recognize the number and almost didn't answer (I've been pummeled with calls from vulture-realtors, ever since I took our house off the market. . .), but hit the "answer" key in spite of myself. It was my cousin, Erin, on the other end, asking if I needed any help with moving, because she and her husband, Kurt, wanted to pitch in. I nearly drove off the road,   as I was so taken with gratitude—I couldn't thank her enough for the completely unexpected yet immensely welcomed offer—while trying to give her details of when, where, how, etc., and figuring out how to get to my meeting location and keep the Jeep between the lines on the road all at the same time without taking out another driver . . . thank God I'm the Queen of Multitasking and Maneuvering I94 . . .

I picked up the moving van by 10 a.m., my mom supplied the juice, coffee and donuts . . . everything was unloaded and back in Wrenwood by 3 p.m.; post-moving grub courtesy of Penny . . . without our two surprise-extra-power-house workers (and their adorable helpers, Quinn and Elise), I truly don't know if we would have gotten everything moved over in one day, much less one trip. . . huge love and endless gratitude to Mikey, Penny and Jim, my mom, Gretchen and Sophi, Erin, Kurt and the kidlets . . . I have said this for years—as long as I've known them, and can still say it with absolute conviction—Penny and Jim can run circles around people a fraction of their age . . . and it goes without saying, but I will, forever, my family is always there when I need them, always, and in all ways . . . so full of gratitude, for everyone's assistance . . .

Dogs were a tad befuddled the first day, but give 'em a day or two, and suddenly, they, too, are right at home again. Rocco's been uncharacteristically subdued (maybe I should move more frequently . . .) Gaia slept outside the first night, but after the second night, I heard the familiar grinding of claws on the deck—Gaia demanding to come in. (I don't even remember if I wrote about her inner ear infection of last fall; shortly after moving to St. Paul, she developed a crazy case of vertigo and whenever she came into the house, she'd fall all over, since she couldn't get a grip on the hardwood floors. The infection went away, but her aversion to the indoors hasn't, and since "The Incident," she hasn't slept inside since possibly September of last year). She hesitated at first, when I opened the patio door wide for her, then eventually stepped across the threshold and into the kitchen. She spent a good half hour pacing around the house—sniffing and checking every corner until she eventually made her way to the basement steps, and gingerly tromped down, took a left and into the furnace room, her old sleeping area. . .  Gretch and her step-daughter, Sophi, stayed with us the first night home, they helped so much, getting things back in their rightful place. . . we ordered a Savoy's pizza for dinner, and as we were serving up slices, this song came on the radio:

The song that played in my head, on endless loop, while Bob was at Bethesda, for four months, the song that played through my head as I brought him home from that godforsaken place, to his home, our home, where he so badly wanted to be, just home. Gretchen and I froze for a second, and then, as if on cue, we both burst into tears and started dancing around the kitchen . . . I don't know if poor Sophi was entertained or traumatized . . .

How to describe "coming home . . ." I can't do it, just yet, am hugely lacking in words to describe how to at once, feel immense peace and love, yet at the same time, be standing next to our bed and suddenly, be right there again, helping Bob in and out of bed, changing his wound dressings, helping him with his meds . . . in the kitchen, in a flash, I am carried back to the summer of 2010, countertops barely visible under all the farmer's market bootie, cooking up a storm, trying desperately to make something healthy and appetizing for Bob, to save his life by cooking, the only thing I could do . . . having my coffee this morning, I am transported to the bleak, dark days of when Bob was first ill, bedridden (well, sofa-ridden), unable to do much of anything but lie on the sofa in the basement . . .I'd get up early, make coffee for us, then join him downstairs, where we'd listen to the news on TV, or just talk, or I'd let him sleep, watch the sunrises. . . being back home, I miss him more than ever, impossible as that seems, because before moving back, I missed him more than ever before. . . a life full of conundrums, contradictions, confusion. . .

But I also feel my breathing slowing down, becoming deeper, more cleansing with each breath, since arriving back at Wrenwood. . . I feel wrapped in peace, feel comfort and love on a level I have yet to begin to understand . . . I could even sleep a whole night through, I do believe, if it weren't for a little mutt that shall be unnamed . . . for two nights in a row, I have only wakened to said mutt whining for his "invitation" to hop into bed with me; when I do fall asleep, I actually sleep, instead of sleeping in fits and starts, snapping awake for seeming no reason at all . . .

Have I ever shared the background story of Wrenwood? I don't know that I ever did. . . as most know, Bob's passion in life was nature/photography (I've come to describe his photography "pasttime" as his passion—it was so much more than a frivolous little pasttime. I believe it fed his soul, and gave him glimpses in to the answers of the great questions of the universe. . . not to be confused with his profession—which was the wine biz. Oh, certainly, he was passionate about wine, too, but nature and photography were his escape, his connection to things deeper than paychecks, responsibilities to "the man," to dealing with clients . . .

Anyhow, I could wax poetic on Bob's spiritual nature/character till the end of time and still fail miserably  capturing all he was as a person, so I'll just shut up about that for now . . . anyhow, back to photography and Wrenwood, because there is a connection, believe it or not . . . Bob always respected and admired the work of Jim Brandenburg, the famous MN nature journalist/photographer, and I think secretly coveted his life, as well. Jim Brandenburg has a cool home deep in the backwoods at the edge of the Boundary Waters that he christened Ravenswood. . . when we moved out to the Stillwater area over seven years ago, Bob was so thrilled to have his own little "state park" in our backyard. We don't have ravens here, but we do have an abundance of other birds, most prevalent, songbirds. He took to catering to the needs of the birds—a colony of seed feeders, a heated birdbath and various suet feeders popped up around the house. . . he even made a few bird houses during his short-lived carpentry phase (kinda like my short-lived craft phase . . .) Bob was thrilled to see such an enthusiastic reception with his efforts and  decided to call our little slice of paradise, "Wrenwood."

At least once a week (likely more, there are so many things that happened so long ago, in another lifetime, that I'm still having such a hard time remembering . . .), he would announce, "I'm going out to do chores!" and traipse out to the garage, to the big tin trashcan that housed the bird feed, and he'd fill each one, and then shake extra onto the ground below—for squirrels, turkeys, I'm not quite sure . . . every now and then, he might glance out a window, smile and say, "I have a new customer at one of the feeders!" and proceed to tell me what he saw—maybe a chickadee, a downy woodpecker, perhaps a goldfinch. Spring was especially exciting, when we'd see flashes of brilliant blue in the form of a bluebird or hear the buzzing of hummingbird wings (Often, i could hear them before I saw them, they're so tiny). I am so bad at bird identification—they all tend to look like fast-moving blobs of feathers to me. . .

Anyhow, that is the silly little story of how this house came to be called Wrenwood. . . not as "cool" as Ravenwood, perhaps, but so full of Bob's spirit. . .and once again, my home.