Sometimes a cat is just a cat

Spring has blessed us with her presence and the people of Toronto have hit the streets wearing t-shirts and happy faces. I feel like I've been set free after a long, dark winter and take every opportunity to get outside. At home the windows have been thrown open and the cat has been stuck, riveted, to the windowsill as he rediscovers the sounds of the outside world.

Watching him this morning reminded me of this time last year, his first spring with me. Over the years I've always felt bad for cats when I noticed them sitting by windows looking out with what I imagined to be longing. When I noticed how curious my cat was about life on the other side of the glass, I bought a leash and took him outside thinking I was doing a very good thing.

Instead of bounding about, exploring the new sights, smells and sounds as he had in my very benevolent imagination; he cowered in the shadows of the building, pressed against the ground as if willing himself to disappear, meowing what I imagine was the cat equivalent to "there's no place like home, there's no place like home". If he had ruby slippers to transport him, I'm sure he would have been clicking his little paws madly and meowing even louder. I was so disappointed.

Then I thought about it. What I had done was the equivalent of dropping him onto a whole new planet that he didn't even know existed let alone speak the language, know the customs, or understand the inhabitants. Pretty cruel, actually. It made me conscious of the fact that watching something, even wanting something, is a whole world apart from actually getting it. That sometimes what you want isn't really what you want at all. That having what you desire dropped into your lap can be a terrible thing, sometimes we just have to find our own way there.

Then it made me think 'For craps sake! Sometimes a cat looking out the window is just a cat looking out the window - stop procrastinating and get your ass to work'. And that's what I did :)

same kid, different sandbox

Coffee this morning with I. was frustrating. I enjoy our conversations; the drift between poetry, life, and random topics like today's discussion about skunk cabbage. Even more, I love the way that snipits from our conversations work their way into my thoughts throughout the week, adding something new to whatever I'm mulling over at the moment. So why, then, am I so frequently frustrated during our conversations?

Today I felt something different, something deeper running beneath my frustration: I felt overwhelmed. It hit me for the first time that I. and I have very different conversation styles. He's able to jump into conversation the moment he arrives, almost as if he can hit a 'play' button and, that's it, instant conversation. I'm different. I'm slower to take in my surroundings, to observe what's happening around me, to get a feel for who else is sharing my space and where they're at. I need that time.

Today I got lost in the flurry of I's words. While my mind was still trying to make the transition from that quiet, internal place I was sitting in, I. was already sharing his excitement about the poem he's reading, the statue he found at Edwards Gardens and that, yes, the skunk cabbage is out - spring is just around the corner. As my energy was slowly creeping forward, tentatively reaching out for that comfortable place where our energies could meet and melt together, I's was rushing forward and crashing against mine before completely submerging me like a tidal wave. It was too much. It is too much.

It may take me longer than some to warm up but once I'm there, I'm there. I think I was the same as a child. I'm pretty sure I was one of those watchful kids; that I didn't like being grabbed by the hand and pulled forward preferring, instead, to watch for a while, get the lay of the land and then ever so carefully, unobtrusively work my way in. While I'm able to manage, to hide my reticence, to make myself move more willingly forward, it's definitely learned behaviour. Left to my own devices, I need that time to slowly melt into my surroundings. After all, I'm the same kid, it's just the sandbox that has changed.

crawling

Crawled my way through practice this morning. Had to redesign most of the seated poses as 'lean very slightly forward-asana' but as I was moving through the finishing poses I was overwhelmed by the strongest feeling of gratitude.

Even when its bad, its good.

enough

Ok. I've had enough with the pain. As much fun as these last three months have been with the constant, incessant, neverfreakingending throbbing pain, it's time for this party to end. This week saw the addition of a limp to the previous benefits of extreme discomfort when sitting, climbing stairs, lifting my leg to put on my pants...ya know, any activity that doesn't involve lying down.

I've stopped looking for the lesson, stopped viewing this as a chance to practice non-attachment to my yoga practice, stopped thinking this is an opportunity to treat myself with compassion. At least tonight. Today I finally gave up and stopped my practice at the seated asanas because I just couldn't take it anymore. And then I cried. Where do I go from here? My practice is a non-negotiable part of my life. It's what helps me connect, keeps me focused, helps me centre. I love it, but it hurts. A lot. And it's not getting any better, in fact, its getting worse. I stopped practicing at my shala a few weeks ago because I truly think I might smack someone if they tried to touch me, to adjust me in any way, in any pose - and that just didn't seem very nice. What do I do?

And what's really irritating is that although I'm SO frustrated, SO tired of being in pain, and SO full on fed up with it all, my ability to truly wallow in my misery is marred by this: I can't help but smirk at the fact that life is, quite literally, a pain in the ass.

That and the fact that I've just realized I have time to get a tourist visa for Russia or India but not both.

a drama queen even in boredom...

A journal entry from 10 years ago today made me laugh(amazing the things I can find to do when procrastinating from cleaning). Here it is:

March 19, 1996
I happened, out of boredom, to read an entry in this journal. My eyes opened wide in surprise - heart beating faster, I turned the page, the blood ran from my cheeks and I began to sweat, though I was suddenly freezing. I forced myself through one more entry before slumping back in my chair, glassy eyes staring blankly ahead. My pen rolled across the desk, coming to the edge and teetering for a moment before plunging to the ground, I smiled to myself pleased at the symbolism. It was true...still is true:

I. Am not. Interesting.

Hah! I crack myself up. I guess the more things change, the more they stay the same ;)

finishing up

I leave in a few weeks for five months of travelling and, as my departure date nears, questions about whether I'm 'ready yet' are coming with increasing frequency. So frequently that I have a request: Can you all stop asking me that? I don't quite know what you mean but I can pretty much guarantee that those things I should be doing haven't even occured to me yet - that's the way I do things.

That's not to say I haven't started preparing for my departure yet. I have. I'm engaged in a mad frenzy of finishing up 'stuff' and I'm having a great time doing it. Fancy lotions, conditioners, and shampoos that I would normally use sparingly are being tossed about with complete abandon - bathing has become a most decadent affair. I'm gradually making my way through those 'hand wash only' items that languish at the bottom of my laundry bin waiting for 'next week' when I 'have more time'. And I'm working through the pile of books that have been given to me as 'must reads'; just about done Bruce Chatwin's 'Songlines', finished John Irving's most recent 800+ page excuse for a novel tonight and began 'Reading Lolita in Tehran'.

The one area that's proving challenging is the kitchen. I'm finding the strangest things in there: cans upon cans of palm hearts, bamboo shoots and baby corn (who eats baby corn?), way too many boxes of cooking chocolate to make sense, brown rice, basmati rice, risotto rice, millet, wheat berries, amaranth, gelatin, yeast, 3 bottles of molasses, 6 different types of vinegar, white sugar, brown sugar, turbino sugar, icing sugar, splenda, egg replacer, stevia, agar agar, arrowroot, guam, tapioca...I don't even eat these things. Which explains why they're still there, commiserating with each other on my shelves.

So far, work has benefitted the most from my efforts to clear out my cupboards. Last Friday I was able to use my inexplicable surplus of rice krispies and corn syrup to make vegan rice krispy squares and this Friday it'll be an apple walnut loaf which should finish off the homemade applesauce ambitiously stocked away in my freezer. Next week? Who knows, but one thing is clear: I'm going to have to start getting creative. Send your suggestions for baby corn chocolate millet bread my way.

can't argue with that

I keep getting tagged with emailed quizzes to 'discover your inner Disney character'. I delete them all with no small amount of irritation. C'mon, my inner Disney character? What nonsense.

Today my discovery that it is, in fact, Tuesday NOT Wednesday coincided with yet another invitation from my very persistent Disney friends. In the mood for distraction, I finally accepted. Here are my results: You scored as Sleeping Beauty. You are beautiful and enchanting, and as sweet as ever.

Hey, I can admit when I'm wrong. This test? Clearly not nonsense.

all is coming

I have only one page left in my current journal which, to me, is so very appropriate. All of my journals follow the trend of ending at the same time as I mark a transition in my life, concrete reminders of the closing of one chapter and beginning of a new one. On this same day next month I'll be free and somewhere else. April 11 will be the first day of five months as a tumbleweed. I'll have the space that, re-reading my current journal, I've been craving for a long time. I have no idea what's going to fill that space, or even why I need it so badly, but what's important is that I have it and that I'm giving it to myself.

Before I fill the last few pages of a journal, I always read through the entries from start to finish to observe: what's happened, how am I doing, what strange dreams actually make sense with the grace of hindsight, what was I worried about and how did it turn out, what people, places, dreams, ideas, things, symbols keep popping up? It's been an interesting nine months with entries bridging a chilled out summer, ridiculously busy fall term, and a winter marked by transitions. One thing that struck me was the tone of several entries where I expressed deep disappointment in myself. It was interesting to observe my expectations spelled out so explicitly: that I not settle, that I pay attention to how I'm feeling, that I be authentic in my choices.

I forget the source of this quote but some very smart person said that "there are years that ask questions and years that answer them". I often see that reflected in my journals but this one was a bit different. Where my last journal was very clearly a record of questions, this journal showed a bit of a respite from both. Its simply been a year of living. But its also been a year of preparation and a year of growing pains. Reading back over my experience of this, before I really knew what was happening, I observed a lot of impatience: change now...figure it out now...start now...I need to know now.

In addition to striving, attending to my feelings, and being authentic in my choices there's something else I need to add to the mix: patience.

spring has sprung

The sun is already shining happily and it's only 8:30am. For the first time in several long winter months, it found me in bed this morning and bathed me in its warmth while I lounged lazily; sleeping in but just awake enough to revel in the decadent feeling that accompanies sleeping in.

Walking to the coffee shop on the sunny side of the street, I imagined myself dropped into a Norman Rockwell painting: people walking slowly, hands held with toddlers precarious on their unsure but determined legs; bakery doors thrown open, the enticing scent of fresh-baked pastries chasing after those passing by; young boys on bicycles weaving in and out of pedestrian traffic and young girls in skirts that have been waiting eagerly all these months for warm weather to make their appearance. The feel of the sun after the dark winter was palpable, almost as if I could reach out and scoop it up into a warm, golden sunball.

Last night I had bookclub where we set a record by not mentioning the book once but the conversation, a mix of goofy, ridiculous, academic, and touching, didn't suffer in the slightest from it. And now I sit in the sun, ignoring my morning papers in favour of writing and watching the pigeons socialize on the window ledge. My only agenda this weekend is to get outside and enjoy the sun. I can't imagine a more wonderful day.

Summer postcard, 2005

I wanted to add something to bump the previous, cranky entry down but, unfortunately, I'm fresh out of inspiration these days. This postcard from camping last summer was buried in my daytimer and it gave such a welcome respite from this rainy winter day - it'll more than do to ease the crankiness of the other...

Well, here I am camping. I sit quietly on a sun-warmed rock looking at the big blue of Georgian bay. Watching a family of birds feasting on bright pink thistles in front of my tent. Since the thistles have such fragile stems, the birds flutter down from a willow bush to dance over the pink blossoms, picking at their pollen.

Mingled in the thistles is bright blue lavender which attracts orange, black, white and yellow butterflies. So, I sit at 4:30pm in the shade with this mad symphony of colours trembling in front of me. The bay is very quiet with an evening breeze creating prints, like a cat has danced across the water, over the stillness of the deep, blue bay.

Pink thistles, blue lavender, green/gray willow leaves, dancing birds, brightly coloured butterflies and the warm, georgian breeze lifting my hair. I hope I remember this come winter...

one month

Yesterday I went to a coffee shop on my lunch break and thought very seriously about not coming back. I actually sat in my cozy spot in the sun and journaled about not returning to work as if it were a real option and, as I wrote, I realized this: its going to be a very long month.

The thing is, before I make any decision, I think it through. A lot. Too much. For a long, long time. So once I've decided something, that's it. It must be done. I wave my magic wand and make it so. So, this 3 month gap between giving notice and actually leaving my job? Hmmm. Not so fun.

Instead of giving into my oh-so-strong desire to complain, complain, complain about it, I'm allowing myself this one, holy-crap-its-going-to-be-a-long-month post and then I'll keep the agony of being stuck in a holding pattern to myself. Scouts honour.

And while I wait, I'll just pay extra, extra, extra attention to those things that make my stay in limboland a more comfortable one. Like M&M cookies and the fact that the radio is playing my favourite Verve song; the one that transports me back to a green, winding road emerging from the rainforest in Costa Rica, head nodding in unison with my fellow travellers to the beat of the music. Ahhhh. Deep, happy exhale. That helps.

But, I beg of you, do NOT point out that it's really 1 month + 1 day to go. I don't think I could bear it.

my sister broke my cat

When I sent him to her in December he was a pretty undemanding little guy. A bit vocal but, for the most part, pretty happy to amuse himself with elastics and sitting on my lap. Since picking him up in January, I've observed a few unwelcome changes and I want my old cat back.

I think that Chevy, the dog, and Neutron, the rabbit, were bad influences on him. It seems that a month spent living in their company gave him some strange ideas, like that humans (read: me) will do things such as feed him people food, play with him and otherwise amuse him at his whim. He announces his disappointment at my failure to meet his expectations by meowing non-stop and jamming his ice cold nose into my ear when I'm engaged in unacceptable behaviour - like sleeping.

Out of the two, I blame the rabbit. Chevy is too afraid of my sister to even breathe out of step but Neutron? I'm not buying the innocent bunny act. Sure, rabbits have that whole cute and cuddly thing going for them but we're talking about an animal that stamps its feet to get what it wants. Kind of passive aggressive don't you think? I can easily imagine him, beady red eyes filled with glee, taking my sweet, naive little guy aside to give him the 'real deal'. Maybe he hasn't heard that fur is back in style this season. If I were him, I'd be keeping a veeery low profile ;)

the great and the not so great

I've been amazed by technology these last few days. Yesterday the dentist took a full set of x-rays from all kinds of crazy angles. It was fascinating. And before you even try; no, I don't want to know why my neck warranted a protective shield but the rest of me didn't. Particularly given that the focus of the x-ray radiowhatever was my head, you know, the place that houses my brain.

Today I revisited the heart doctor where, good news, I learned that my heart is where it should be. I can confirm this fact, I got to see it in action. I felt such tenderness, such affection for the little thing. I was mentally cheering it on - go little heart go - it works so hard. I watched the muscles contract and valves flap busily away from all angles. It even came with a soundtrack, sounded kind of like what I imagine it would sound like in space.

On the not so amazing side, this article from today's paper which has been irritating me all day: "Cave blondes did have more fun". All kinds of nonsense about how since cave men were busy hunting and dying of starvation on the tundra there was a shortage of men so, in the competition for partners, women with blond hair stood out and attracted more suitors because of their different appearance.

Notwithstanding the image I have in my head of very happy cavepeople camps where the children played, the women laughed and they all nibbled happily on fruit, nuts and...green stuff; this article is irritating because of the small print at the end of the article reading: "this study was sponsored by a shampoo company".

Hm. Shampoo-sponsored research revealing that blondes had more fun. Imagine that?

it was the weather

Many years ago when I was travelling in Cambodia I met Nina, the most fabulous English woman, also travelling alone. She had sold her house, left her job, picked up and begun vagabonding as soon as her son left home for university. We met on the plane to Phenom Penh and travelled together for a short while.

At 57 years old and a tiny slip of a woman, Nina inspired me. She appeared unassuming, even timid looking, but nothing could have been further from the truth. She was mischevious, wry, brave and so happy to be where she was 25 years after the travel bug initially seized her. I felt that she had been put in my path to correct my notion of timing. At the time, I was very preoccupied with notions of what I 'should' be doing as I approached 30: the 'proper' time to get married, 'proper' time to settle down, and 'proper' time to just get serious about life. Because life is very serious stuff isn't it? Nina was part of a growing wave of influences that helped me realize that this notion of timing, of the right and wrong time to do things, was not static but different for everyone. Seems pretty logical now but, at the time, it was news to me.

I wondered about Nina, about what made her pick up and leave at that point in her life. Whatever it was, I hoped that I would have her courage to pay attention to my dreams and act on them no matter what my age. I was reminded of her tonight when a slip of paper fell to the floor as I shifted my travel journals. I must have asked her what motivated her to travel because written on the back of a Phenom Penh guesthouse receipt was this:

"By the way - I asked Nina what prompted her to finally pick up and go travelling and she said 'It was the weather' ".

Funny what it all comes down to sometimes isn't it?

bye february

I used to work as a special needs therapist with a boy who, once he'd grasped that saying "Goodbye" indicated endings, that someone was leaving, used to greet me at the door with the words "bye becca", hoping to head off the work that was to follow. To this day when I'm faced with something or someone that I'm finding difficult, those words pop into my head in almost the exact same petulant, querulous five year old voice that he would use. Along those lines: bye February.

It's been a challenging month where, more often than I'd like, I've felt controlled, stuck and trapped all of which are my 'red flag' feelings, the ones that chase whatever equilibrium I may have away quicker than anything else I can think of. The humbling part of it is that this came from one area of my life only: work. Organizing my leave and negotiating my end date was a long, drawn out process but outside of work, life has been knock-on-wood wonderful. And I knew that things at work would work out. So why did I allow that one challenge to stress me out so much?

So very humbling because just when I think I may have a grasp on things, that I may be learning something about staying in the moment, not getting caught up in the drama, breathing through the difficult times something happens - a mirror is offered - and I realize that I may be pretty good at doing all of those great 'in the moment' things when life is going well but when something important to me is challenged I'm still pretty quick to lose it. One step forward, two steps back. I'll get there.

Things did get resolved at work, and very well at that. I have a year long leave of absence beginning April 7th and, even with the challenge of sorting out my leave, everything has fallen into place so incredibly well that it's been a powerful reminder that when it's right - it works

happy friday everyone :)

Pretty smart guy, that Carl

Given that I've never actually been asked any such questions, I've given my response to queries such as "If you could invite any 5 people to dinner, who would they be?" or "If you had the opportunity to meet anyone, alive or dead, who would you choose?" a shocking amount of thought.

I think it's because I've heard others answer and, no matter what their response, it always seemed better than what I come up with: a big, vacuous, cowed by the infinite possibilities response of "I don't know". Either they pick someone touching, like a family member, and I feel like a heel for not having thought of that myself or they go for some iconic figure and I feel like an imbecile for not having the foggiest idea of who they're referring to.

A few days ago I came across this quote that I'd written down a lifetime ago:

"One can be filled with that spirit of divine discontent which forces all free people to face some new discovery or to live their lives in a new way"

I copied it from Man and His Symbols by Carl Jung and faint recollections from lectures attended and books read about Jung have been bubbling to the surface ever since.

That he advised ignoring science texts and 'wandering the world with a human heart' to truly gain knowledge of the human soul. His belief in synchronicity and the collective unconscious. The way he discussed his views on the human psyche interchangeably with references to mythology, philosophy, and religion. That he looked to dreams and creativity for insight into our 'inner space'. His absolute belief in the importance of symbolism. The very fact that rediscovering the quote above helped soothe my absolute impatience at waiting until April to be free...I finally have an answer: I'd like to have dinner with Carl Jung, please.

Divine discontent. What a beautiful way of putting it. Now, if only I can get the cantankerous, frustrated, impatient child screaming "now, now NOW" that seems to have taken over my 'inner space' to listen - that would be something.

hearts

Vday completely slipped past me today until I received this poem from my sister, Ekah, who writes better than I think even she knows

Hearts have retractable compartments
Depending on what is said
Drawers pull back
Depending on what is asked
A vice wraps round

Tones change
And with conversation;

He holds her hand for the first time
She makes him cry for the last time.

Up down
Open closed

Hearts are fearful
And complex
Sometimes overflowing

But in between there is laughing

He loosens
She undoes

And something beautiful spills out

In strangely related news, I went to the heart doctor today (yes, that's the official name) for tests. After they had finished hooking me up to the echocardiographthingy there was great concern because the machine wouldn't work. It died, went on strike, refused to light up, wouldn't work.

I've been feeling a bit stressed lately so I'm trying not to read too much into the fact that the heart machine broke when trying to test my heart. Instead, I'm going to assume that it's because my heart is just too big, too full and too fantastic for the damn machine to withstand. How appropriate on this, of all days :)

Happy VDay everyone

april 25, 1995

As I've been working to make sense of this strange paradox I'm in where I know life is good but itch for something more, I've been thinking about something I wrote when I graduated from university. Back when I thought graduation meant the end: that I was just a short skip and a jump from a house in the suburbs, mindless job and minivan full of screaming children. Terrified that that was my destiny, I wrote a note to myself, a promise of sorts, the day after my last exam.

It's been on my mind these last few weeks so I spent an evening browsing through 10 years of journals looking for the entry. I did find it, it's copied below, but I also found so much more. Like a reminder of what a dramatic child I was (my family is collectively rolling their eyes at this revelation, I know) but I was kind of funny too, and vulnerable and tentative, and lost but insightful at times. I wanted to go back and give that girl a great big hug, tell her it would all work out even though I know I wouldn't have listened anyway. It's a strange thing this life - we all need to learn in our own way at our own time. At any rate, the entry I'm speaking of follows:

April 25, 1995

Yesterday I wrote my last exam. A blitz of 3 all nighters in one week with too much stress, too few meals, too many cigarettes and I’m done.

I wanted to sit down and write about how I feel about graduating, but I don’t know what to say. I’ve been scared about it all term but now that’s its here, I’m not even scared. I’m sort of numb. I’m sure it will sink in sooner or later. Probably sooner.

I feel mute by the virtue of decision. I can do anything I want and I don’t think I want the choice. My life is spread out in front of me and I want merely to choose complacency and stability. There’s nothing wrong with that, if that's what I really want, but if I choose it out of fear, I can’t live with that and I’m afraid that’s what will happen to me.

I’ve been told that I expect too much. What does that mean exactly? I don't think you can ever expect 'too much'. If I expect it, it is what it is. It can’t be too much, can it?

I love school and there are things that I've learned here that I want to keep with me forever, but I can't think of them all right now. I do know two things I must remember:

1. never accept complacency – live
2. don't stop learning

I don’t ever want to just accept life the way it is. I want to love my life and, if I don’t, have the courage to change it. I see the easiness of getting a job, a car, bills to pay and being stuck in a rut. I never want that. I want to remember that, when life becomes mundane, I can always change it. I want to remember that I have so much to offer and I don't want to shortchange myself. I want to live, not just exist.

I guess that's what it's all about. It's time to stretch a little, to make some changes, to take a small step away from 'complacency' and one step towards 'live'.

missing: my imaginary friend

I've imagined someone into being my friend. We've never met, in fact, we've never been in the same room at the same time, but I see him every day and he's become a comforting constant in the fabric of this strange urban community I've created for myself.

Driving across the city in the early morning hours, I see the still-dark city in an entirely different light than I do during the day when the streets are alive with activity. I notice houses I've never seen before, street names that usually escape me, and my friend - the only other conscious person I encounter on my 5:30am trek across the city.

He sits in the only open coffee house on Bloor, always in the same spot in the front window, laptop open, staring intently at the screen. I wonder about him: Why so early? Is he a morning person or is he squeezing in a few hours before work? If so, what is he working on that inspires such dedication?

I know it's possible that he's programming or designing web pages or some such techy mumbo jumbo but I've imagined that he's a writer and that he's awake, writing so early, because he has to be. Because he absolutely can't imagine his day beginning any other way. Because the words won't wait 9 hours until work is finished to be spilled to paper. Each morning as I pass I look in and smile to see him there, embraced by the warm glow of the coffee shop, and send a silent good morning his way.

For two days now his spot in the window has been empty and I've missed him. I'm sure he's on vacation or having long, late, luxurious mornings but I've worried about him all the same.

shake, shake, shake

My lower right back has been growling at me lately and I've been so puzzled by it, what have I done? During today's practice I remembered that this happens every time I change things. New jobs, ending a relationship, returning home from a long trip, each is accompanied, without fail, by pain in my lower right back. Usually I expect it which is why I can't believe it took me so long to clue in this week. Of course it's hurting, today's the day I talk to work.

A friend recently compared my life to a snowglobe: even though it looks pretty when settled and calm, I can't seem to resist picking up the damn globe and shaking for all I'm worth. Accordingly, I've had plenty of opportunity to think about this strange thing that happens to my back when I'm caught up in my own personal storm.

The first time this happened a friend commented that the sacrum, where I experience pain, is referred to as the seat of life. I absolutely loved this - still do. It makes such intuitive sense to me that the physical impact of tossing my very cozy life into a state of upheaval would be experienced in my physical seat of life.

Along those lines, I recently learned that kundalini yoga refers to this area as Swadhisthana, or One's own abode, and understands life changes as a result of energy moving up through the chakras accompanied by the desire to move, reach out, grow and change. Check, check, check, and check to each of the above.

Remembering all of these things as I practiced this morning helped me respond with compassion, to be gentle and not force movement where all that's really needed is a bit of TLC instead of being frustrated over yet another 'injury'. It also made me smile - one's own abode - how lovely is that?