I lean back into the cushions on my sofa one recent evening at home, after many, many recent evenings at home, and still find solace nesting there. My mind drifts to the places holding me . . . cushions made from the textures of Burkina Faso, the intricate designs of China, Laos, Japan, the weave of Ghana. I nibble from a pottery bowl fired in Morocco, use a napkin handwoven in Mexico on a table carved in Cameroon. A Yoruba chief from Nigeria, a gift to my parents from the chief himself, watches over me.
It occurs to me that the heart of my home doesn't shield me from the world; rather, in many ways, it invites me into the wonder of it.
I've always delighted in creating a home and take root in it. And yet, still, I need wide skies; I need to belong to a largeness. Beyond my tribe, my allegiances, my place on earth, I ache to belong to the whole fantastical thing. Only in the Oneness of the world can beauty dwell in peace; can truth be cobbled together, around a table where all have a seat. Only there can we find our humanness, and belong to one another.
So, I invite the world into my home. But also, also, I go out, especially now, into the sea of anguish that is ours, to make my home in the world. All of us under the same wide sky. All of us a belonging to a beautiful largeness. All of us watching over each other.
Susan Hull Walker