Bless Our House

The apartment that my brother and his wife live in is a wonderfully eclectic place. Between their bookshelves of classical literature and theology (including Western, Eastern, and nearly everything in between), the framed abstract photographic works of our sister, the Lewis Carroll quotes on their refrigerator (which, incidentally, are taped right next to the magazine picture of a very pouty monkey on a tree branch), the photographs of Prague and Venice and a watercolor of a fox's head, the 12-month calendar that my sister-in-law's little sister made (which has its own claims to creative fame, let me tell you), and the St. Brigid's cross that hangs above their front door, any observer who was let in would have to concede that the young Muellers are a people of varied tastes and interests. My favorite bit of decorative ingenuity, however, is the piece of paper that hangs above their bedroom door. My sister-in-law, Megan, took up embroidery some months ago and decided to stitch a hoop with lyrics from one of her favorite songs. (The song, by the way, is "Sadie" by Joanna Newsom. Newsom is an incredibly acquired taste; I'm still in the middle ground of only being able to take some of her songs. But "Sadie" is definitely one that I can listen to over and over again.) The lyrics, as they are intended to appear, are these:

"Bless our house and its heart so savage."

Until the hoop could be finished, though, Megan decided to write the lyrics on a piece of lined yellow notebook paper and tape it above the door. To make it a bit more creative, she replaced the word "heart" with the corresponding symbol. Aesthetically, it's a pleasing little piece of artwork; but if your eyes are like mine, they tend to skip over symbols and focus only on the printed words. Which means that when I walked into the apartment for the first time, I saw a sign above the door that read:

"Bless our house and it's so savage."

I assumed that this was a reference to something I didn't understand, and didn't ask any questions. Apparently I wasn't the only one who made this mistake. When the matter came to light, we all had a good laugh about it - what silliness, home being "so savage". That was a good six or seven months ago, though; and even though the embroidery piece is finished, that piece of paper is still taped above their bedroom door. It's odd, but when I think of little things about home that I'll miss, that sign is one of the first things to come to mind.

I'm leaving for school in Illinois on Thursday, and even though I've known that since April, somehow the fact just gets stranger every day. I know it's time for me to go somewhere new - and it probably has been for awhile - but I can't help feeling a little nauseous when I think about it. I've traveled before, plenty of times; I spent two months traveling Europe by myself, for heaven's sake. But every time I've gone somewhere, I've always come back. It's not that I'm worried about feeling homesick, mind; I adapt to new places surprisingly quickly, as long as I have enough to do. It's just that I've been realizing, bit by bit, that this really is the end of a chapter. Not even just a chapter - more like the end of one book in a series. Right now my whole family - my parents, my oldest sister and her husband and my baby niece, my brother and his wife, and my sister Kate (who is also my closest friend) - are all relatively close. Most of us live within fifteen minutes of each other. But once I leave, Kate is planning on moving, and Jon and Megan have been looking to move for some time. I don't think that we'll all live in the same town again - at least not for a long while. And as far as I know, I won't ever live at home again. The thing that kills me most is the fact that by the time I graduate, my niece will be three years old. It still freaks me out that she can stand on her own; when I come home and hear her talking, I might have a heart attack.

All of this is normal, I know. It just surprises me that I'd never thought of it in these exact terms before. I only thought of moving to a new place; I didn't think as much about the one I'd leave, and all the things here that I won't have there. And then, somehow, there's a bizarre part of me that feels like I've done all of this before. But that, I think, may be simply because I have vicariously survived college three times already. (The blessing and curse of being so close to one's older siblings.) Half the time I feel stressed and nervous because I've never lived in a different state than my family before; but for the other half, I feel like I'm simply following an all too familiar routine. Both halves, oddly enough, are equally exhausting.

How silly of me. They can't be exact halves, 50-50, because there is a third category. A smaller one, yes, but it's there nonetheless. So maybe it's 45-45-10. And that is the part of me that knows, absolutely and resolutely, that this is exactly where I'm meant to be. At the beginning. Despite whatever "old soul" complex I've developed as the youngest of four, I'm only nineteen. I'm heading into the years that most everyone looks back upon with fondness. The stretching and molding and eventually definitive years. "Home" will still mean the Southern California house where my parents live - for awhile. After that, I'm not sure where the word will refer to, but I'll find out eventually. And really, that's what makes the search exciting, isn't it?

I've never tried my hand at embroidery, but I do like the idea of hanging a hoop of my own above a door someplace. Probably something equally obscure (especially if words are lost in symbol-translation), and, hopefully, someplace equally and lovingly savage.

Here's to the search.