I long, as does every human being, to be at home wherever I find myself. ~ Maya Angelou
The Stories They Hold
Ellie Searl
I’ve never liked to rise earlier than the sun, but lately I’ve savored the first hours of each day. While I wait for a crack in the almost-morning sky, I imagine the treasures of my home. Memory treasures. Treasures our family has gathered through the years. Chairs and tables, vases and pictures. Sculptures and coats, lap throws and newspapers. All of these in a comforting disarray of living. We fill the rooms of our lives with love and bustle and happiness. My home is alive with the stories written by the people who matter most to me. MORE . . .
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Writing Your Way Home
Carolyn B Healy
By day, it was a typical conference room with moveable tables and stackable chairs. By night, or at least this night, it became a salon, a home away from home. The tables made a cozy U-shape, so everyone could see and be seen. Table cloths covered each, and antique-style lamps shed soft light. Plates of sweets and coffee took up the table near the door. Wordless music played quietly in the background. The words would come from the dozen women who filed in, late because there was childcare trouble – too many kids with too many needs, more than had been expected. The chaos of resistance and misplaced toys and unfamiliar places took its usual toll on both mothers and kids. New childcare recruits were summoned to help, and we could begin.
These women looked tired. They had all experienced domestic violence and were finding their way out, either through shelter or education and counseling or groups for moms and kids. They had children to care for, jobs to find, homes to make. Homes that would be safe. MORE . . .
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