the art of love

(great grandma carters stock pot, now serving the fifth generation of chicken soup)

we recently went the rounds with that nasty cold that is hitting households state wide. such illness is the prime reason chicken soup was invented, I believe. and being short a few key items I called upon my mother for a few missing ingredients, so as to avoid the grocery store. suddenly this ginormous pot was at the ready, along with the needed, and very appreciated missing ingredients.

the pot belonged to my great grandmother, who happened to spend the majority of her life just across the street and down a little. in a darling, once white house with yellow trim. she and her sweet husband were it's first occupants. and that house remained in family hands until just a few years ago. it has housed cousins, visiting aunts and uncles and cousins, and most recently was the permanent home for my once far away grandparents, until their health required another change of scenery. I have many memories of that place. most with family. some light and others spiritual. many of my mother checking in on her sweet grandma. her house was the go to spot for most every family wedding and baby shower with room in the yard for the quilt frame and body's, plenty of room for kick the can and hide and go seek, too.

it was a sad time when the home was sold. and I am very curious what changes have occurred to the structure. it has changed hands many times in these past years. and each time a for sale sign stands in the front yard I feel a bit of heart ache. I long for that home to house the happiness it once knew.

but that ache is easily extinguished. it only takes a phone call to a sister, a request to a mother, a night of provident progress, a chat with a neighbor friend, or simply reading one of your blogs to recall the bright feelings of love. a love that does not "change hands" but only grows stronger when shared with loving hands. as was shared with me many times within the walls of my great grandmothers home, at my parents house and now within the walls of my own home, just up the street a little. because it's not the house that gives me longing, it is the women that the place represents. and the legacy that they left behind, is ongoing and thriving. it's a stock pot for soup, but mostly it's a hand to uplift, a shoulder to cry on, a smile on a grey day, a service without end. a legacy I hope I am passing on my own daughters. because I know it's not just from me these lessons are gleaned.