A room with a view into the soul

I wonder how often I’ve heard the phrase, ‘home is where the heart is.’ Yet I find no attribution to its originator. The sentiment seems universally accepted, so wherever one feels most loved can be considered home.

I’ve been in Illinois for a few days, a combination of work and pleasure, and spent an evening with good friends Phil and his wife, Mickey. They live in Libertyville, a short distance from downtown Chicago, with a touch of what I call, the heartland of America. Single story-houses fill tree-lined streets, initially constructed at the middle of the century, and flesh out as true neighborhoods. As I pass through their front door, I experience being “home.”

Their house echoes personal warmth and grace, from the polished wooden floors and cupboards, to the choice of paint colors in each of the rooms. A downstairs basement has been transformed into a meditation and t’ai chi studio, a haven and retreat from the stresses of everyday life.

They graciously offer their daughter Annie’s room for the night. She lives in Colorado as she tests her newly acquired adult wings, but her room continues to hold her presence and magic. Stuffed animals, softball trophies and photographs of her friends hint at a joyous life. Tiny illuminated feet march across the ceiling, a remnant of nightlights from her earliest days.

I think this room might be the first I’ve slept in where an entire childhood was lived. There is an energy that bespeaks of roots, a concept that is foreign for me. I am a true manifestation of the California spirit; movement and change are constants.

My father was a builder, first in Long Beach, then later in Laguna and other parts of Orange County. Each time our family settled in a home, he’d build another and we’d pack our belongings and move. Each new house meant new neighbors, a new bus stop, a new grocery store and an adjustment period.

Sleeping in Annie’s room opened an internal conversation about movement, about my own ancestors who began, as so many of ours did, on the far side of the Atlantic. My mother’s side landed for a while in Pennsylvania, then slowly reached westward, through Indiana, Michigan, Iowa, and Colorado. The first of her kin reached California in the late 1800’s.

My father’s family also started their trek on European shores, landed in Oklahoma, mingled with some Indians, stopped briefly in Texas, then headed west to San Francisco, south to Los Angeles, and further south with my great grandfather into British Honduras.

We are a family of movers, rather than settlers, although some did fall behind and put down roots. It is the sense of continuity of place that I experience within the comfort of Phil and Mickey’s home. This sense that is not integral to my personality. I don’t believe settling is in my genes.

Settling is a part, not only of Phil’s residence, but also his career. Phil has been a counselor in the Chicago area for over 25 years. He and his partner Nancy founded Gurnee Counseling Center committed to discovering solutions, not dwelling on problems. They recently completed a new building for their practice. That center has the same feeling that exudes from Phil’s home, although I suspect that many of the internal touches, such as sponge-painted walls with clouds and a flower-laden field are an equal mark of Nancy’s spirit. Natural light spills in through large windows, and Phil’s upstairs office provides a grand view of the surrounding trees.

The center functions as a healing space, with a goal to offer programs that are focused on a wellness of the mind, body and spirit, with 20 therapists, all selected for their exceptional qualities of caring. In a sense, they have dedicated their careers to helping others find their own internal and personal home.

I write this from a hotel room on the road and feel my heart beating. The depths of my home are rooted in family and friends, however far they may roam.

Home is wherever the heart is.