the door is always open

Home is where the heart is. There’s no place like home (for the holidays). We’re all just walking each other home. (Ram Dass) 

I miss my parent’s house this time of year. I yearn to be standing in the family room looking out the window while my mom, siblings, husband, and kids are sitting on the couch drinking, eating, and laughing while watching Jeopardy. There are white lights from the Christmas tree reflecting on the glass of the big windows and a fire going. 

Out the window, snow flurries begin to fall silently and softly. I see them swirling in the white light like little dancing fairies. Like the scene from the Nutcracker with the sparkly flakes and white tutus. 

They are sent from my dad, I think. I don’t want to tell anyone just yet that it has started snowing. It feels like a miracle, a gift from him. And all feels right in the world. Even if for an instant. My heart spills out of my eyes. 

I pull that memory up when I need it. It doesn’t come from my mind, though, it’s stored deep in my chest and heart. Warming, although bittersweet because it can’t happen exactly like that anymore. 

But still, the memory gives me wings. 

I remind myself that home, that our true eternal homes are wherever we are. Our body is home. Our bones; our scaffolding and our feet, our foundation. Our hearts – the best and purest part of us - the warmth, the welcoming, the glow, the fire.

I close my eyes, unclench my forehead, jaw, shoulders and there is my breath like the fresh falling snow. Soft, sweeping, gentle. It blankets everything in peace. A chance for a clean slate. Over and over again. 

My chest rises, it falls. 

To be in my body is to be present. To be quiet and still, to be awake to it all - including the sadness, anticipation, fear. 

Those moments at home weren’t picture perfect. There were arguments, tears, tantrums, stomach bugs, and often times too much drinking and eating. 

Home can be messy because we are vulnerable. It’s imperfect and awkward sometimes just like we are as human beings. 

When I was doing my yoga teacher training almost 15 years ago, I loved hearing my kind, bubbly teacher, Ally, talk about the importance of our hands and our feet. In every pose, there was an opportunity to engage them - parts we often overlook and take for granted. She would tell us that our hands are our heart connectors and our feet, our earth connectors. 

One helps us connect to those around us – through touch, making food, art, and prayer. They provide us the opportunity to reach out, gather and give. 

And our feet help connect us to the sacred ground beneath us. We root down and feel our breath going through our bodies down into the soles of our feet. And in turn, this grounding great mother spirit feeds us. She is holding, supporting, centering, and nurturing us. Unconditionally and eternally. 

Meditation teacher and author, Tara Brach, talks about the importance of engaging our hands and feet too. When we feel resistance and fear rising and taking hold in our chests, we pause, inhale, and utilize the idea of an anchor. 

An anchor to hold us in place, to give us a minute to find stability, stillness, and safety. To find everything-ness and nothingness. To move beyond. To choose to respond rather than react. 

Anchors help us focus, get us back into our bodies and out of our racing, noisy minds. They quiet and center us just like the fresh, clean, snow. Slow, sparkly, and settled. 

An anchor can be our breath. Or it can be placing our hands on our hearts and closing our eyes. It can be repeating to ourselves, hands and feet, hands and feet. 

The practice of bringing my awareness to my hands and feet helps calm me when I’m feeling anxious and I am so thankful for how hard they work for us. 

Coming back to my body, back to my breath, my hands and feet, I’m coming home. Again and again. Here, I belong, I am strong and centered, I’m welcomed exactly as I am, and the door is always open.