Here, on a windswept
high plateau, is where
I have most come
to feel most at home.
This is also where the
words came to me -
in my own,
my chosen home -
and where I started
my exploration
of what it means,
to be at home.
MENU
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ON BEING AT HOME:
THOUGHTS
MY FATHER, MY SELF
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IN MY OWN,
MY CHOSEN HOME
SUMMER'S PASSING
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POEMS
IN MY OWN,
MY CHOSEN HOME
SUMMER'S PASSING
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INTERACTIVE FLASH
MUSIC VIDEO!!
SUMMER'S PASSING
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HOME IS ...
many voices
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MORE POEMS,
SPOKEN WORD,
AND SONGS
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HOME -
first version - 2006
HOME IS …
All around me are the places we live in – old brick houses, apartment blocks, highrises. But what does it mean, to be at home?
I didn’t know that question interested me until Karen, a painter, and David, a photographer, asked me if I would like to be part of their project. It had nothing to do with home. They were planning to explore Quebec – “Quebec Seen” – through their very different eyes. I would add another element, words. I wasn’t enthusiastic, but I claimed to be. Yes, wonderful, great project. Maybe it was.
But my heart wasn’t in it. At heart, I am not a tourist. I would have to drag myself to place after place. Inside me, everything said, “I’d rather stay home.”
My way of getting around my inner foot-dragging was to suggest we start with a weekend at what was just beginning to become my home, the old country place that my partner and I had bought a couple of years before. After all, the countryside was gorgeous, and we would have a place to stay.
Karen and David would be the first guests ever – because for two years walls had been coming down, plaster dust was everywhere, windows were changed in mid-winter, the furniture was protected under thick layers of plastic. Philippe, my partner, was off somewhere traveling for work. I spent eight hours setting up the living room.
That weekend, David photographed and Karen sketched. I could not make myself do what I was supposed to do – experience the landscape and express this experience.
But a couple of days later, alone, watching the autumn morning from inside my home, I heard the words, “in my own, my chosen home,” inside my head.
That’s where it all started for me, my exploration of what it means to be at home.
I sat down and wrote, walked from room to room and wrote. The words came and came.
copyright © Elsa Schieder 2006, 2008
publishing house -
FlufferDuff Impressions 2006, 2008
IN MY OWN,
MYiCHOSENiHOME
in my own
my chosen home
on a high plateau
all alone
yet cozy
a nest
and large
inviting in
each day
I feel blessed
inviting in
for the eyes
the flocks of
birds
the morning mist
the nighttime sky
inviting in
the forest
that
changes day by day
to
russets and reds
to
shades of gray
I feast my eyes
I feel blessed
in this
my chosen home
I've come to rest
with cats
and dog
and partner
and stepchild
with friends, my friends
and theirs
those we invite in
the landscape is always our guest
we invite it in on each side
through huge windows
with
warm wood frames
and we begin
to put down roots
plant rose bushes
wild
roses
near the barn
I move from room to room
can't settle down
my eyes feast
can't settle on just one
sight
though in this
my chosen home
I've
settled in
and
settled
blossom
from
deep inside
open
wide
my arms
my heart
which
whispers
cries
let
the loving start
it's love that floods in
from each field
each far-off farm
each sunrise sunset
each far distant hill
it's love that warms each cell
overflows the heart
the autumn fields
long grasses
furrowed lines
will yield
to winter
to spring
to summer sun
I stand watching
feeling
tall
slim tufts of hay swaying
just
outside my window
because we've delayed
mowing
the field around us
I like the tall dry grass
it's hard to leave
to tear myself away
I invite
I long to stay
and to share
this
my
chosen home
on
a high plateau
cozy
large
spacious
warm
my
home
Elsa
October 2, 2000
copyright © Elsa Schieder 2000, 2008
publishing house -
FlufferDuff Impressions 2006, 2008
For only the poem/word piece,
click here.
contact your
thoughts what
home means to you
The impetus for the poem goes back to childhood.
Click here for father and daughter stories,
starting with a father who never seemed to feel at home,
except in his imaginings, his longings, his dreams.
To go to only the poem/word piece, click here.
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Happiness Poems. Poems about Happiness.
In my own, my chosen home,
on a high plateau, all alone,
yet cozy, a nest, I've come to rest,
I feel blessed.
Happiness Poem. Happy Poem.
All around are
the places we live in.
But what does it mean, to be at home?
My father never felt at home.
In my own, my chosen home -
explorations, reflections, word pieces
on the sense of home.
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home place, happiness poems, home space,
happiness growing,
chosen home, forever at home, happiness flowing into happiness poetry,
home is where the heart is, homeward bound,
happiness flowing into poems about happiness,
a happy poem a day keeps the doctor away,
no matter how humble there's no place like home,
poems about happiness, poems about joy,
home home on the range where the deer and the antelope play,
poems overflowing from the fullness of life,
home - where my heart is waiting silently for me, falling into place,
poems of stillness, poems of peace
no race, space to breathe,
outward bound, homeward bound, chosen home, o give me a home,
and then, contentment poems come into my head from my heart,
from this chosen home, the seasons,
the world is my home, my home is the world,
at home in,
at home in words, at home in ideas, at home among people,
forever at
home, not never at home, instead happiness poems,
poems about happiness flowing
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