It’s a late summer Saturday morning. I’m sitting on my front porch, which becomes my living room throughout the summer. The sun is trying to peek through an overcast sky, there’s a gentle breeze blowing, the birds are singing, and the crickets are chirping. Drops of water from last night’s rain cling to my Japanese maple, as if it’s “bedazzled.” I could, literally, sit here all day. This is my happy place. Home is our “safe” place, right?

Today is a good day, not the slightest hint of my Meniere’s symptoms. I’m so thankful, as I know that could change any moment. This spot, this chair, this house comforts me. I welcome the peace, the balance, the clarity. 

Twenty-four years ago, I sat on the floor of an empty living room in the first house I shared with my then husband. I was heartbroken to leave it. I made a vow to never become attached to another house ever again. And through many years of moving around the country, I kept that promise to myself. Until now…

I love this house.  Despite all the quirks of a house built in 1926, its little problems (maybe a few big ones) with all the “to-dos."  I love this home I’ve made for myself.  And when I was first diagnosed, these walls were a refuge. A private place to be raw, to be angry, to be scared, to cry, to live my symptoms without anyone else having to see.  To be safe. 

This little house has seen so much of my life in the last 12 years. It watched as my son has become a man. It watched as I fell in and out of love. It’s heard laughter and music. It’s seen passion, anger, and the pain of change. It’s vibrated with the love of family and friends. It sheltered me through uncertain times…times shared by our entire global community. 

I’ve spent a lot of time here, alone, contemplating my life with Meniere’s Disease, coming to terms, embracing it as simply part of who I am. Over time, I’ve become far more comfortable venturing out, sharing time outside the safety of my home. Yet, like many of you, home remains my safe place. Not to hide from the world outside, but a place of shelter that warms me, embraces me, restores me. A place to be completely myself. A place that welcomes my wondering, my curiosity, my creativity. The energy I feel here inspires me to learn, to explore, to create, to pray, to sing, to nurture, to just be. 

I have no doubt there is more to come. More laughter and smiles of friends. More food and wine to be shared. More stories to be told. More tears to be shed, more lessons to be learned. And certainly, more challenges to face. I choose to welcome and embrace it all as the flow of life. As my 89-year-old father has always said, “life is a long series of adjustments” and my vestibular disorder has certainly been one of those “adjustments.”

The spirit and energy of this little house (yes, I’ll confess, that I love), holds my energy within its walls and reflects it back to me. My faith, my open heart, my open eyes, and my listening spirit. And these walls shelter me and keep me safe when I need to pause, retreat, restore, get healthy and get back on track.

This dizzy life is not always easy.  This little house, this home I’ve made, is so much more than a roof over my head. It is the oasis where I find my center, where I strive to keep my soul and my body healthy. Today, I’m filled with gratitude for all the blessings I’ve been given.  And as I sit on my front porch that I love…this moment, right now…is a beautiful gift indeed.

With gratitude,