my soft place to fall

A house I never would have chosen in a town whose name made me cringe. Floral prints and lacy table runners and enough wood to choke a horse. Ack! Art and statues I'd never buy -- angels and flowers and country landscapes. Talking about granite counters and science projects to people I couldn't imagine I'd have anything in common with.

There are dog hairs on my sweater and slobber on my hand. Not a real knife or a fresh vegetable in sight. (OK, maybe a tomato in the summer.) High-tech gadgets abound; TVs outnumber people 2 to 1, iPods 3 to 1. And there's not nearly enough closet space, I fear, to one day accommodate all my shoes.

But the couch, which is still most definitely not my taste, is soft and welcoming; the four legs that curl up on my own two bring me comfort, those brown eyes tell me she's happy I'm here and she feels safe in my lap. (Sucka!) The photos on that damn dark wood table show faces I've come to love. I try to imagine how I'll feel when my picture is among them.

I walk in to no fanfare. It's not a big deal that I'm there. And that's a good thing. There's diet soda in the basement and Splenda in the cabinet. And there's (almost) always a bottle of white chilling on the refrigerator door. I help myself to pretzels and Baby Bels, knowing there will always be enough for me. I'm even offered the occasional chicken nugget.

I can go there with a heavy heart and walk out with my head high, my load lighter. There's no judgment, no lectures, no grudges. Just love. And light. And acceptance.

It's my soft place to fall.