Both Margaret Thatcher and Bette Davis shared the sentiment that "home" is where you go if you have nothing better to do or nowhere else to go. Shaw seemed to think of it as either a prison or a workhouse, at least for females.
Shows what they know. For me, coming home is luxury. I'll tell you a secret: no matter where I go, no matter how much I love it there, I always love coming home. I love sleeping in my own bed. I love sitting on my couch, by myself, when its peaceful and quiet. I love it when the low-angle sun streams in on winter morning, I love it on dark nights like tonight, I love it when I hear the rain hammer on the metal roof.
Much as I like going to visit people, I like it best when they come to visit me.
Surely, no doubt, I wouldn't feel this way if I didn't go away as often as I did. I would miss traveling (though not airports, or planes). I would be very sad if I had to stay here, in this home, for a whole month. But it's pretty wonderful to have a place you want to come back to.
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It's been one of the most stressful months of my life, and there are few signs that it's letting up in the near future. Tonight, I came home after an exhausting day, with a briefcase full of work. I didn't do any of it. I turned on the Christmas lights (hung this weekend, while listening to Eleanor Wachtel discuss The Year of Magical Thinking with Joan Didion on my radio. I am so happy CBC Radio exists too), I poured a glass of wine, and I sat on my couch. It's not a particularly great couch, this is a tiny apartment as far as apartments go (with the exception of the bathroom, you can see *all* of it in these two pictures), but it makes me happy.
