They say home is where your heart is. I don’t see it that way. My heart has a high mobility rate. I take it everywhere. I suppose in a sense you could say that I am home wherever I am. But as to where I sleep and such, as to the location I return to that makes me feel oh so glad to be there again, the defining feature of that place is that my stuff is there. So the way I see it, home is where my stuff is.
My stuff is 30 feet off the ground. And the walls around my stuff have lots of windows. About once every year or two, some guy comes over and climbs a really long ladder, washes a window, climbs down, moves the ladder, climbs up, washes a window, etc. So I was only slightly startled when I walked into the dining room today to see a man who appeared to be suspended in space, right outside a window. At first I didn’t notice his ladder or his cleaning intentions. It was the sound that stopped me, coming from his mouth. It was music. It was the kind of full-throated exaltation that comes from a place of unpressured, unperformed contentment. It was as pure as any music I had ever heard or made. I didn’t know the melody. I didn’t even know the language. Here’s what I did know. I’ve changed. I’m like that guy now. If my life should turn in such a way that me and my heart washed windows for pay, I think I would sing on a ladder.