Through the pages of her journal, InHabit Travel Studies Consultant Jennifer Wieland has been taking us along on her travels. This month, we’re pleased to share a seventh excerpt from Jen’s travel journal. She writes from New England, where she is spending time in her childhood home. She rediscovers the magic of a homespun kind of rest. She describes how her mother created a home that exuded rest in all its facets. You can find all of Jen’s excerpts here, including those that follow her Camino trek from Le-Puy-en-Velay to St-Jean-Pied-de-Port. 
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Everything about travelling to my childhood home feels restful. There is something to be said for going back to the same good place over and over again. It’s soothing, it’s easy, it’s familiar, and I know that when I return from this destination, I will feel rested. And this is thanks to my mother. 

There is something to be said for going back to the same good place over and over again.

As far back as I can remember, a homespun kind of rest existed in our house. The days were loosely and simply woven together, with a bit of rough textured discipline added in, like chore charts, homework, and strict bedtimes. Never pretentious and always genuine, my mother had an informal and folksy way of making home a restful place to be.   

Although my mother died many years ago, this 250 year old New England homestead stays the same, its energy is nostalgic. I can be nearer to her in this place, with her spirit encouraging me to let go of any restlessness, and settle in a while. 

Never pretentious and always genuine, my mother had an informal and folksy way of making home a restful place to be

A restful state of mind

Arriving, I stand outside and reach for the door knob; it is round, brown and worn shiny from many hands, and welcomes me through the heavy, painted, rust coloured  door. As I enter the kitchen, the door gently bumps the back of my mother’s rocking chair behind it. Inside it’s quiet, except for me and my daydreaming.

The sunlight shines through the small windows, casting shadows of copper pots and pans on the walls. I imagine familiar sounds; the creaking of the floor, the water running through the pipes, and the old washing machine rumbling and whirling. I turn left, cross through the dining room into the living room. I see my mother’s wingback chair, next to a table covered with books, magazines, Christmas cacti and framed photos. A spiral of emotions runs through me as I imagine my mother sitting there, reading while listening to the television. She is resting; she is very good at it. Her body is frail, but she doesn’t dwell on it. Her mind is fine, still sharp, just like her kitchen knives. She is at peace in this beautiful place. I say a soft hello and she nods and smiles. She likes it when I am with her.
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I bring my bag up to my old room at the top of the stairs off of the sewing room next to the bathroom. It is small and cozy, my poster framed bed, my mahogany flip down desk, my tall dresser, and my round mirror above it, are all the same as when I was a child. The bathroom still has the old clawfoot bathtub where my mother gave me and brother our first baths. The sewing room has deep bookshelves filled with cooking, gardening, and travel magazines, as well as art history books and novels. Pieces of my mother’s pottery and paintings decorate the long hallway around the top of the stairway. I make my way back downstairs. 

Outside, the air is fresh with a scent of ocean breeze and the garden invites me to explore. Red cardinals and white butterflies fly by me, the keepers of my mother’s spirit, and her stone angel statue, its features weathered away over the years, stands proudly at the entrance to the porch. Majestic pine and oak trees encircle the house providing shelter and food for rabbits, chipmunks, squirrels, deer and turkey. I come back inside and sit on the screened in porch. My mother’s wooden armchair is there next to our big family table. In my heart, I invite her to join me and she sits with me. We watch the birds play on the electrical wires connecting the house to the old telephone pole at the top of the road. 

In my reverie, I go back in time. I build forts in the woods, and hear my mother ring her cowbell to get me back home for dinner. I hear my brother’s basketball bouncing off the rim of the hoop up in the barn. We were active outside all day long and into the early evening, when the comforting smell of a home cooked meal would lure us back. After dinner, we would lounge in front of the television, watching show after show, mesmerised, resting in a deep knowing that we were safe and loved. 

‍A restful sense of being

I am shaken out of my daydreaming when I hear my brother’s car arrive. He has also returned for a few months of summertime. We grew up in this place together, never moving anywhere else until our late teens when we went off to university, and now we are more grateful than ever that our mother saved this place for us. Our childhood home grounds us, and it grounds our children, too. This  blissful restful soulful home is preserved for our family, welcoming and holding  our spirits and our lives.. This is where we all find rest. 

My brother and I each have two adult children who were spoiled rotten in Nana’s kitchen whenever we came home for the summer holidays. But how did our mother do it? How did she allow us to invade her space summer after endless summer, not seeing us for many months in between after we both decided to settle in Europe? Well, our mother was very good at resting…she knew how to do it, and she taught us how to do it too.

Our summer holidays with Nana were essential for our overall health and well-being. It was sacred; it recovered our lives, it renewed our spirits and restored our sanity. Physical, mental, emotional, sensory, creative, social, and spiritual rest — we all wanted it and we knew we needed it, and she allowed us to find it. All of our senses came alive in this house; there was creation happening all the time, and yet it was the most restful place on earth. Cooking, painting, pottery, arts and crafts, gardening, reading, bicycling, swimming down at the beach. We would explore new ideas, stay curious, inspired and motivated by our surroundings. 

Physical, mental, emotional, sensory, creative, social, and spiritual rest — we all wanted it and we knew we needed it, and she allowed us to find it.

We would take naps — better naps than anywhere else in the world — and we would turn off our phones. My mother never had a mobile phone, just the rotary landline on the wall in the kitchen, which is still hanging there, a relic. As a teenager, after dinner dishes and homework were done, I would talk for hours on that phone; wind down, recount the school day, the gossip, never wondering about who in the house could hear me. Nobody posted anything back then, we just lived. We rested well, and we slept well, giving our brains time to stop, recharge, and process so we could stay focused, productive and alert through the gruelling days of academia. And of course, Nana wanted the same for her grandchildren. 

Although she worked hard as an art history lecturer and then as a corporate catering chef, our mother knew when to take a break. She knew how to spend time alone, to talk and listen to her friends, to take care of herself, to write letters, and to sit back quietly in one of her favourite chairs. She made it clear to us that we should do the same and that taking care of ourselves wasn’t selfish. When she retired, she continued her daily rituals. She dressed well, wore perfume and washed her face with extreme care. (Her mother had taught her this as she had been a model for Revlon). She taught me to do this self-care ritual as well: always circle up, never down. Over the years, she became radiantly wrinkled, with fabulous smile lines and thin lips. (I laugh at how very similar I now look to her in my second half!)  

Our mother was a social creature but she knew how draining socializing could be. Her best friend for years was an introvert. They knew how to spend time alone, as well as spend time with close family and friends. One of their favourite activities was tending to the gardens, where they would connect with their inner selves, stay grounded and feel fulfilled. Without a doubt, my mother and her friend were talented resters; artists of rest, residents of rest. The two of them embraced rest as a lifelong practice.

Without a doubt, my mother and her friend were talented resters; artists of rest, residents of rest.

‍A restful sense of place

Our family home continues to exude rest; it smells, sounds, tastes, feels, and looks rested. It is our haven; a restful place for me, my brother, our children and our friends who are always welcome. I love being here now, and I loved being here as a child. When our mother died, my brother and I thought about where she would have wanted her ashes to be placed, but as she left no instructions, we had to decide where she would rest. Unsurprisingly, she is still inside our home, and she is around our home as well, with a circle of her ashes scattered in the gardens. 
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I like to remember my mother at the end of her life, not at all resigned, but full of rest. And when I return home, I sense she is still here; in the groundedness of this beautiful place and in the lightness of the red cardinals and the white butterflies that come to greet me here. Our homespun kind of rest holds us; we are loved, safe, secure, and comforted. We return to our best selves when we are rested, in this life and in the next. And home, no matter where we find it, is a true resting place for all of us, who inhabit it, gently in the past, purposefully in the now, and boldly in the forevermore.