Why I am Happy

I love love love being home. There is something delicious about being able to be myself unbridled by self-consciousness or the need to be accepted. Admittedly I am my most foolish, frivolous, unguarded self here, there are parts of me here I sometimes wish were all grown up and gone but all the same the tang of being unfettered will always be a taste I savor. Like running through Grandpa's wheat field as a little girl, trying hard to stay in the lines so as not to break the stalks but not caring who saw or what happened to my hair or how much muck I got on my clothes, home has a freedom I can find nowhere else. Being surrounded by people who love me and not only hope but expect me to succeed without reservation is a rare gift.

I love how things change and still somehow stay the same. The baby is taller but she still has a boundless imagination. Next up is braver but still mutters the funniest statements I hear from anyone under her breath. I still can't sleep in the bed I'm assigned. The sister whose room I share is still so like me it's almost frightening, but now she's older and more mature even than I am. There are less of us here but somehow the dynamic is in the same key, even if the harmonies are different. Now mom works but she is still my mom and still makes time for me when I need her. Dad is much more capable on the boat and is much healthier but emergencies and chocolate still creep their way into existence somehow. My parents grow ever more anxious for me to drop their name but it is still a fun family joke.

I love my house. The creaky third stair, the sticky D# key on the upstairs piano, the huge ceiling on the entrance hall where we hang moldy mistletoe at Christmas time, the prickly blackberry bush in the garden, the wall of pictures from before I knew how to smile, the clothes all over the bathroom I still share with three of my sisters, the way the front door shrieks when the Texas winds are too strong, the brown stain-resistant carpet that has lasted through nearly six children's maturation without dying, I love it all. The smells, the tastes, the way the dark granite counters contrast with the pink tile floor, my green bedroom with a blue cloudy sky we never finished painting, the two empty guestrooms that no one stays in cause we would rather giggle with each other whenever we are at home. I love having food in the pantry--so much I often don't know where to start. I love the Young Chang piano I grew up with, the way I have to really dig in to make the sounds I love and the way it pushes back against me as I feed it my emotions. Even the new dog, with his expert sad eyes to beg with, the way he follows me around when we're home alone and sits next to me, just happy to be in the same room as I am in. Delightful, all of it.

I will miss it when I go back. I know that, and even though part of me is excited to begin my second year of grad school, implementing what I've learned this summer and seeing the friends I made up there yet again, right now I'm just soaking it in. The sights, the smells, the tumbled over goodnight hugs after family prayer and scripture study. The way mom is grateful for my dinners even when the rice is still hard and the eggplant is overcooked into a pasty mess. For now, I am me. The purest, most uncensored form of me that is wisely subdued and caged in polite society. For now, I am simply happy.