Home (Or, Faerietales)

(SPOILER ALERT: This posting gives away major plot points.)

I'd been all set to write about a completely different topic. But then I decided on Sam Rockwell for my "Hottie of the Day" at work (don't ask!) and my mind shifted gears and I decided to write about "Home," such a weird and wonderful and oftentimes sad word. The above picture is a still-shot from my favorite film, Lawn Dogs. In one of the final scenes, Devon cups Trent's face and says to him, "Home is in my hands." Gets me every time. Over the years I've tried to figure out exactly what a home is--and how it differs from just a house. A house is walls and architecture, nails and drills and saws. A home is crackling fireplaces, and laughter, and hugs, and shared memories around the kitchen table. Houses are places. Homes are feelings. In Lawn Dogs, Trent and Devon form an uncommon/non-traditional friendship; they are scorned by her rich gated community because of the vast difference in their ages, but mostly because he comes from the proverbial wrong side of the tracks. Hers is a land of WASPy barbecues and "big problems" equaling what new CDs to buy at the strip mall; his is a land of trailers and broken lawnmowers, cigarettes-as-release and skinny-dipping as adventure. What I love most about this film is its ending....As their friendship starts, Devon sees Trent as a parallel to the witch Baba Yaga, but this is a viewpoint driven into her by her socialite-political-backstabbing-adulterous parents. By the end, she sees her parents--her whole community--as the witch. She and Trent are the "children lost in the woods," trying to escape "her" evil clutches. She offers Trent a comb and towel (from the Baba Yaga tale), which he can use while he rides/drives off to safer territory. The Law/Conformist Morality is after him, but he throws down the towel and a river springs up to cover his tracks. He throws down the comb and a forest cracks up through the road, offering shelter and protection. The filmmakers--particularly the screenwriter, Naomi Wallace, and the director, John Duigan--never clue the audience in to whether or not these events actually happen. And this decision is spot-on. What's important is that it happens inside Trent's heart; he now believes. In this crazy world where we bomb one another in the name of peace, two people have reached out for one another, and connected, and sparked magic between each other. This is such a rare, rare thing! Loneliness likes to loom above us and try to keep us captive. But we must remember that we always have sparks around us and inside us--fueled by others, sometimes by ourselves. Who of us hasn't at one time or another wanted to ride off into the sunset with some handsome prince or princess? Who of us hasn't dreamed that we'd become rich and suddenly all our problems would be solved? Who of us hasn't felt trapped in the forest, all the breadcrumbs pecked away by hungry birds, and we're left to fend for ourselves against the wolves? Just remember this: There's always a cottage. There's always a home. Weetzie Bat, in Francesca Lia Block's book by the same name, says: "I don't know about 'happily ever after,'...but I know about 'happily.'" No one could've said it better. Every day we are saved by the little things--a cup of coffee with just the right amount of creamer; the sun bursting through a cloud and sparkling on some flower petals; a stranger lets you get on the bus first; you dream about God; someone brings you a piece of chocolate right when you're craving it; you notice that children have drawn a game of hopscotch on the sidewalk and you glance around, quickly, then jump, jump, jump on the pink smeary squares and pretend you're five again; you literally smell the roses; you offer someone a hug with your eyes; your blanket and pillow fit just right around you as you drift off to sleep. Sometimes, if we're lucky, we find people to do these things with--or at least people who respect our own wacky adventures and admire us for them. Here's an example: I talked to Jerry this weekend, whose partner Dale passed away on Friday. I felt honored that Jerry called to talk to me, especially because we haven't spoken on the phone in years. But, immediately, he cried and knew he felt safe and saw me as a Room in his Home. I just wanted to reach through the phone wires and give him a big squeeze. But that's the thing--he knew I was squeezing. He knew that, even if time filled some gaps between us, he could still call me up and say, "Hey you, I hear you have a vacancy at the Heart Hotel....Can I reserve a pad where you serve Friendship for Room Service?" Anytime, Jerry--I admire you and your love and loyalty for Dale so very, very much! Anytime, all of you! Bombs keep exploding, and children die, and bullets get fired, but you know what? We have to keep on throwing open our Doors and shouting, "Yes! I'm here! Welcome!"