I come home from being out to the wild hedges in front of my house, sticking out every which way beneath the unkempt maple who stretches her boughs down to tickle passers by on the sidewalk below.

I had left the house earlier to take my daughter to Davis Square, feeling self-conscious as we pulled out of the driveway about neglecting my yard.

I should be trimming tonight, I told my daughter. Why? she asked. I hardly even notice them.

They are the hedges of a crazy woman, I say. She looks back as we drive away, notices the contrast between the hedges I’ve left untrimmed on two sides and the neatly trimmed hedges my neighbor manages between our properties, and laughs.

After being out and meeting someone new for dinner, then visiting my old friends at the Sharing Circle, full of love and soul around the candles, sitting on the folding chairs on the edges of the rug we roll out and roll up and put away, I came home to the wilds of Somerville with new vision.

I’ve lived my life here making a home of curb finds and flea market treasures. Sunday I visited the Providence Flea with friends. I brought home four glowing orange dinner plates, two hand made sunset dessert plates, a small serving bowl in sky blue, and two little golden bowls to hold our berries. I haven’t been able to keep my eyes off them all week. They catch the sun as it sets outside my windows and contrast boldly with the dark green kale and the bright red strawberries my daughter and I love.

I am not meant for new and shiny, for pure and white. I am attracted to old and colorful, to light and patina, to chips and stories. Anyone who can love me for that (including my sometimes more judgmental self) is welcome here. Anyone who cannot love me or this home for the wild (h)edges and the mismatched, glowing dishes need not worry.

As I come up the stairs to my home I notice the flowers blooming amidst the straying hedges. I am not meant for trim and tidy. I am the let it bloom and grow kind of Maria, the one who will trim eventually, when it’s cooler, when the time is right. Let the neighbors talk. Quiet my inner voices down.

Like the ants crawl freely inside this year, un-poisoned, the hedges grow wildly outside, untrimmed and blooming. Something about that is speaking to me, along with the birds in the trees and the squirrels who played chasing games on my roof at 4 am this morning, leaping from the overgrown branches onto my home, wreaking havoc with my sleep and causing me to look up the tree service on my phone, imagining they might be able to help me tame the nature invading my city world.

I didn’t call the tree service. Instead I planned a road trip with my daughter, bought camping supplies, plotted routes across beautiful, rugged terrain out west, fantasized about adventure and new worlds, in hopes of opening to new life.

What lies ahead at 52, another long term relationship ended, my daughter heading into her senior year of boarding school, my sons on their own? Its impossible to say, though I hope it will be soulful. For now, home will be my filter.

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