The House That Built Me

The days are few and far between when I don't blab incessantly about my song of the week.....ok so why stop now? My opening number this week every morning in the shower and then again at the matinee in the Volvo and any other random moment of musical urge is Miranda Lambert's The House That Built Me. (watch video above)

What I gather on day one is that the song gives hope and promise that our remedies are found in our memories. The lyrics lead us home to our little girl beds and our little boy bunks, tucked in tight, somebody we love turns out the light. Our pretty little houses still decorate our pretty little streets...If only we could run up those steps one more time and swing that door open to see mommy standing there. If we could sit on the red couch, the one with the Vermont snow scene, and run our hands across the worn spot one more time. And then stand in the corner of the kitchen and watch the five of us whisper and giggle til the fruit cocktail was gone or the milk was spilled. One more game of running bases and one more talent show .....
 Ok so that was Sunday's take.

But here comes Monday...well by now I know every verse, every word, every chord....by now I've sang the song 27 times...but by the beginning of the 28th encore, things start to add up.....and stir up.

Exactly where is the house that built me? Is there a house that built me? wait a minute....I've lived in alot of houses...hmmmm.

I suppose it was this morning when I realized that my house is that mansion on the hill that has sheltered, comforted, and protected me from the elements and forces of human nature that can storm all over a well-lived life.

My house has been expanded and remodeled through the years...it's been demolished and built back again....always looking better and feeling stronger than its previous state. My house has lots of room, plenty of space where I store my memories in sturdy little boxes that will never need replacing. I frame the defining moments and decorate the walls with my original works of art...the ones I am most proud of, the ones that are getting older and wiser and more beautiful every day.

Every mile, every turn, my house follows me...welcomes me back each and every time. There's a stillness that sits beneath the laughter and the tears that have occupied my house. Music travels through the rooms, filling the spaces left between love and loss.

To Italy, the islands or back to the coast, my house is coming with me; I have to make more room and fill more boxes. I have to paint the walls so my framed works of art will always look as good as they make me feel. I have to rearrange the furniture and freshen things up...I never know who's next to arrive or how long they'll stay. I must organize the boxes, making sure thre is plenty of room for the moments, the smiles, the tiny little stones that are left for me by people like you.

Poets can say it or Miranda can sing it, but I'm going to live it...by keeping my memories dust free and accessible in my mansion on the hill where I can hold on to the things I love, the things I am, and the things I never want to lose.
OneLove