Home, Healing, Hafiz ... And the Boy George Table
One of the most incredible gifts of my life is my house … My sweet storybook cottage I’ve called home for nearly nine years.
Growing up shuffling between completely separate homes and communities on opposite coasts, home has been an elusive feeling for me.
I’ve felt a deep knowing that I was home exactly twice in my lifetime: The first time I saw my storybook cottage - when I was not the least bit in the market for a house, and it was not the least bit on the market - and when a particularly amazing singer/songwriter walked into my world four years ago.
When I moved into my storybook cottage, I discovered that we had a wonderful neighborhood diner. The food was absolutely fantastic, with everything made from scratch. It was music themed, and the menu was full of dishes like Barbara Streisand’s “It’s like buttah” milk Pancakes, Johnny Cash Onion Rings of Fire, and the Dolly Parton Melt, consisting of a giant breast of chicken! The walls were covered with music memorabilia, and the tables were covered with the records of various artists.
I was especially partial to the Boy George table.
I couldn’t even tell you how many hours I spent there writing rambling posts, learning that I’m allowed to ask for that table I want so I don’t feel crowded and stressed - even on a busy Saturday morning - and feeding both my body and soul as I was always greeted like family and with my regular drink order.
It’s where I took every out of town guest, it’s where I celebrated my 40th birthday, and it’s where I once had a conversation that was so powerful that my companion wrote a poem about it, called “Breakfast with the Buddha.“
A couple of years ago, the founder and heart behind the diner passed away. While her family wanted to honor her and keep it going, they ultimately had to honor their own paths and joy and follow their own hearts, so the diner closed last week.
As they tied things up, they opened the doors to offer the community some of their treasures.
To my complete surprise, not only was I able to snag a few of my favorite pieces from the walls, but I was able to bring home my beloved Boy George table! It’s where I sit this very moment pouring out these words, and it’s so much more of a gift than I had any idea it would be.
Along with bringing such a fun spirit and so many rich and beautiful memories to my kitchen, it brought with it an unexpected gift:
I’ve actually been setting the table and sitting down to eat.
I've been doing a lot of cooking lately, but it's just me so I tend to sit on the couch catching up on my shows.
Sitting at this table that's been set for me - with my companion here - is a whole new level of feeling cared for.
Cooking and everything else to do with creating a home was an obligation and a burden and a trap to my mother.
I never had any concept of those things as loving.
Or rather, I did ... What I understood was that loving me was an obligation and a burden and a trap.
And horrifically hard work.
It’s really hard to heal the deep belief that loving me is a chore, and that anything that’s a gift to me is a terrible burden to the giver. Those things have felt like fundamental truths for as long as I can remember, and it's one of my deepest wounds.
A couple of years ago, I received some powerful healing for that wound, by way of my very favorite gift.
It’s a poem whose words had been brought to my world by the aforementioned amazing singer/songwriter my heart knows is home, and because it spoke so deeply to me, I asked if he would write it out for me. He often writes out such things and posts them on social media, so I thought MAYBE wouldn’t be the world’s most horrific burden, but I was not at all convinced.
As always seems to be the case with him, though, the depth to which I wanted it outweighed my fear, so I sent an email and asked.
And I got no answer.
For months.
As I tend to do, I feared that that silence meant I had terribly offended him by daring to ask for such a thing, and that he had decided never to speak to me again.
When I fear, I go all the way!
Or, my heart whispered, maybe he’s an in-demand artist and songwriter with a ridiculous inbox, and was just terrible at returning emails, as he had told me on numerous occasions!
It could’ve gone either way.
I steeled up my courage and asked again.
I was stunned when he replied.
“There there, Susan," he said, evidently reading my fear between the lines. "I would be happy to put that together for you. Writing things out like that is like therapy for me, so you would be providing me a service."
I’m sorry, what?!
In this moment I asked this person who matters more deeply to me than anyone ever has for this gift that would be most special thing I’ve ever owned, he not only said yes, but that creating it for me would be a GIFT to him?!
This was 2 1/2 years ago and tears are still flowing down my face.
Never in my lifetime had I considered that a gift to me could also be a gift to the giver ... Or to anyone else.
I had been taught so deeply that everything that was done for me was a terrible and painful sacrifice that I came to understand that I was a life-sucking presence in this world.
I learned that my happiness hurt others.
That if I was experiencing joy, someone else was paying for it with pain.
My mother's struggles with deep depression that truly did make things a heavy burden made this especially pronounced for me, but my heart longs for us to re-examine the way we try to instill gratitude in our children. Even in cases much less severe than mine, I think so often we are instilling lethal guilt instead.
Actually, I think that much like kindness, gratitude cannot be instilled, it can only be modeled. When we try to “teach“ or instill it, it becomes something else ... Guilt, obligation, and control.
It becomes payment that's expected for "love" ... Where painful sacrifices are made so you'd better appreciate them.
That is not love, my friends.
I’m sorry, if loving me is a burden and a chore to you, I don’t want your love.
I want to be a joy, not a job.
I have no words for the healing power of his email saying I was doing him a service, letting me know that this act of kindness was not, in fact, going to be a burden or sacrifice.
When I asked him to write out those words, I was simply envisioning it in pen and paper in his beautiful handwriting.
I was stunned when he hand delivered it on Christmas Eve, beautifully painted in ink and watercolor ... With apologies for not having framed or wrapped it.
There are countless lessons held in that beautiful sheet of watercolor paper.
Ask for what you want.
No answer does not mean no.
Ask again.
Silence is not abandonment.
Let go of expectations and timelines.
Giving a gift to you is a gift to me.
Loving you is not a burden.
Not to mention the powerful lesson of its words themselves … The deep truth that we can only grow and thrive in the encouragement of light.
And the most magical lesson of all:
Write letters to Santa.
He is 100% real.