Of Couches and Kitchens

Spending time sitting around our friends’ kitchen table in Chicago made me reflect on other places I feel at home.  Places where I walk in, plop down on the couch or at the kitchen table and instantly feel comfort, security, and rootedness.  Places where I have laughed until I cried, cried so hard I didn’t think I could breathe, or shared the deep, dark places of myself (sometimes all three within moments of each other).  Places where we have loved on each other’s children and admitted our failings as mothers, wives, friends.  Places where there is not judgment, but complete acceptance, even when it’s too hard to accept oneself.  Places where I can brag about myself or my children and know it is received without criticism.

Of course, most of the time, it’s just two (or three or four) friends chatting about our days, our gripes, our jobs, but sometimes those sacred windows of vulnerability open up and raw emotions rush in.  And that’s good stuff.  So if you’re one of those friends whose couches or kitchen tables has become a holy place, thank you.  And know you’re always welcome at mine.

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