One Wee Spark

It's drives my husband crazy when we go to bed, but I find the sound of a ticking clock very comforting and relaxing. Perhaps it reminds me of my mother's heartbeat in utero? I don't know. It just is what it is.

Today is Valentine's Day, in case any of you haven't already heard. It was also group night. With a newspaper article in the local paper since our last meeting, I was feeling very optimistic that tonight, I would not be THE group. And I wasn't disappointed. Five minutes till seven, he walked in. We'll call him Grandpa Joe. He is NOT the adult child of a hoarder. He's a hoarder, admittedly, and he is looking for help. We sat and spoke to Joe for 45 minutes. He told us about his current project, clearing out an estate. Apparently, the woman who has passed on had a strong desire for Christmas decorations. He had already moved three loads of Christmas decor from her home TODAY. The last load was still in his SUV outside.

I grew up in a house that was far from "Home Sweet Home". The conditions of my home, the relationship between my mother and myself, and the dichotomy of my self at home and my self outside of the home stripped any positive connotations from the word home. I'm not alone.  Last summer, I was blessed to be part of a small group of adults who grew up in homes like mine. Our wonderful hostess and champion, Dr. Suzanne Chabaud, invited us to join her in New Orleans for a Summit of adult-children of hoarders. She welcomed us to the Dante house with open doors, and open arms. All of us were touched deeply by our experience. This week, I got the opportunity to return to visit Dr. Chabaud. My brothers and sisters from the hoard were not all here, and so the dynamic was different, but when I walked through the back door of the Dante house and through the kitchen, I was transformed. Where my childhood home had so many negative memories attached to it, this house has on...