It would be comforting to write in a place with other writers. Much like the kitchen in the show Shrinking, where the Shrinks haphazardly gather with no purpose, no appointment. It’s unstructured time to top off coffee or fill a water bottle. Ask how are you and sit for a minute or stand.

In my life, the only persons who ask me how I am are my therapist every few weeks and my psychiatrist today. I haven’t seen her in 11 months!

My writing room is slightly musty from old books stacked on shelves and the floor. The light, dusty, dances with the fabric of my Palestinian flag hung on the window along with the shadows. The breeze flows in from four inches of open window, winter or summer. Fresh air on my skin makes me feel alive, and I have a problem of not feeling alive.  I also love to sweat in the humid air of a Wisconsin summer. But then I worry about my books.  I checked my hygrometer today worrying about the books being too dry in winter.

Candles have burned in this room. Incense too. The sweet tobacco scent, must books, trinkets from antiquing with my kids, artifacts from Papua New Guinea what little I have, feel familiar. It is home to me.

As a child, home wasn’t a place– it was my parents. Though I was born in Lae, at six, we moved to Ukarumpa, then out to the bush, to create a missionary home.  At seven my parents moved us to California. In 6th grade, we landed in Texas, not on a ranch with cowboys and horses, much to my extreme disappointment. Rather, a ranch-style house in the burbs of Duncanville. Middle and high school are spent there playing the bass clarinet and marching in the band.

They frequently traveled together my parents. Friends took care of us.  I remember the strange family friend, a man who wore a togalike skirt around our house, much to our dismay. Probably something cultural from Australia, but quite shocking for four girls living in Texas ranging in age from elementary to high school. We made sure to quickly inform our mom what a weirdo their friend was in our opinion.

For my mom, I think, traveling with my father was better for her than staying home with us four girls. He was on his best behavior at work. And dealing with Dad when he arrived back weeks later, tired, cranky, critical, and correcting every decision she made while he was gone, well, that was hard on all of us.

I don’t remember talking to my parents as a child. Only when forced. Those conversing were multiplied in difficulty because he wanted a certain respect and responses that suited him. Sometimes I just didn’t want to say what he wanted to hear. But typically, it was easier to concede whatever it was.

I think parents need to interrogate their kids only in the sense that we’re amazed by their brains and awestruck at their creativity. Tell me more! What are you thinking about these days? I love talking to my kids.

I always felt my parents were annoyed they had children. Especially when I displeased my father. That was a surefire way to get the wrong kind of attention; I started to do poorly in school; I was bored. But I read all the time and have a quizzical mind.  Just not in school. There I languished.

More to come.