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About This Author
My name is Joy, and I love to write.
Why poetry, here? Because poetry uplifts its writer, and if she is lucky enough, her readers, too. Around us, so many objects abound to write about. Once a poet starts with a smallest, most trivial object, he shall discover that his pen will spill out what is most delicate or most majestic hidden inside him. Since the classics sometimes dealt with lofty subjects with a lofty language, a person with poetry in his soul may incline to emulate that. That is understandable. Poetry does that to a person: it enlarges the soul and gives it wings. Yet, to really soar, a poet needs to take off from the ground.
 
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Everyday Canvas #834380 added November 19, 2014 at 12:25am
Restrictions: None
My Home, My Habitat
Prompt: "There is nothing like staying home for real comfort." Jane Austen-- Do you agree with Jane?
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Yes, I agree with Jane Austen, but only at this point in my life, since in old age, I’ve turned into a homebody.
Earlier, even up to a few years ago, we used to travel a lot. I not only traveled with my husband, but also I went to places, out of the country, on my own. There were years when we stayed so little in our house that the neighbors thought we sold the place. In those times, I loved being on the go. The airplane, I treated like my private office where I read, wrote letters, even did some work. I could also carry a whole bunch of books and other stuff, no questions asked. Once I drove all the way from New York to Florida and loved every minute of it.
Now, it is a pain to travel. Not only that, I get too tired. The last time we were overseas was in 2008. The last time we were out of state was in August, and in a city where we used to stay three to four days. This time we stayed more than a week to give ourselves time to rest and only ventured around the hotel area or took a taxi. Still we were very tired when we returned. It was like recovering from a bad case of the flu. They say, old age is not for sissies. It is true. I don’t even like driving to the next town, nowadays. It was good to be on the road, but it was then. I remember those days as beautiful memories, yet I have no plans or guts to repeat them again.
Besides, I am enjoying this, too. There are so many advantages to being at home. My home-- its quietness, its lived-in look, its existence without any pretense--calms me down. Everything I want and need is in it within easy reach. I belong in it with my simple little pleasures, all my books, music, plants, tools and trappings. In that respect, home to me now is a structure as well as an ordinary life filled with nothing but myself and my husband, and a glorious condition into which I have retreated to relax for good.
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