My husband and I are huge movie buffs. We love going to the Movie Tavern near our home, which recently installed leather reclining seats and which offers five-dollar movies and unlimited free popcorn on Tuesday nights. This year, especially, we took advantage of this awesome deal and saw several Marvel films, Godzilla (3 times) and Rambo: Last Blood (twice). My husband can quote iconic lines verbatim from virtually every film he has ever seen. He astounds me with his memory, as I tend to remember musical themes as opposed to dialogue. On our first date in the spring of 2015, I mentioned to him that I had bought the Rocky Balboa collection and was in the process of watching all of the films in the boxed set. I craved the inspiration of Rocky triumphing over adversity. At the time, my book was going into production with Balboa Press (a division of Hay House), and I was in the process of editing the text and correctly citing the dozens of sources I referenced in my narrative. It was fitting that I specifically chose that publishing company because I was experiencing great trepidation in regard to the feedback I would receive once the text appeared in print and on Amazon. I was a music professor at an urban commercial arts college who was tackling subjects that did not remotely match her university credentials. I was petrified as to what my art history, mathematics and science colleagues would think of my theology-based interdisciplinary treatise and “mirror of my soul.” I also didn’t want my labor of love to potentially scare off the new man in my life. I needed to activate my inner “Italian Stallion” to turn off the thoughts of inadequacy swimming around in my mind. Little did I know how much my husband loved the Rocky saga, or that he could recite the dialogue from the film whenever he heard a song from the soundtrack. I didn’t know it at the time, but he was and is my mirror –the one – my one, who manifested after Mirror of the Soul was completed. He is my home.

I was listening to the Billy Joel station this morning and happened to hear Billy Joel talk a little bit about his song, “You’re My Home.” He wrote it for his true love for Valentine’s Day when he couldn’t afford to buy her a gift. His sentiments express the way he believes people should feel about their true loves. Billy Joel is my husband Jay’s favorite singer, and he gifted me with a framed picture of the lyrics to “You’re My Home” last Christmas. Jay has always told me to read those words whenever I feel down so I can remember how he truly feels and that we are one. He gets me – more than anyone else in my life. As one can surmise from the title of my book, I am a reflective person, and when I heard Billy Joel speak on the radio, it got me to thinking about what home really means.

With the holiday season so quickly approaching, my thoughts tend to go back home. As the Christmas song says, “There’s no place like home for the holidays.” I grew up in Wilkes-Barre, PA, but I have not lived there in over thirty years. My parents no longer dwell in the house in which we were raised, so it has been a long time since I occupied personal space in my parents’ home. All of my worldly possessions are housed in the space I share with my husband – our home! When I lived as a single lady until recently, my living space reflected stuff that inspired me, made me laugh or reminded me of my family. Seeing pictures of the ones I loved help me to feel better connected to them through time and space. My apartments were “very me,” but I never really felt “at home.” When I visited my parents, siblings and extended family on the holidays, it was never really the living space that felt like home, but more so being in the presence of loved ones. I know what it feels like to embrace my parents or to give my baby nephew hugs and kisses. My imagination knows no bounds, so I can always smell the aroma of cookies, cakes and pies baking in my mom’s oven, or even her lasagna cooking for dinner, no matter where I am. Her delicacies are so real to me that I can taste them. Just the thought of tasting my mom’s confections, makes my mouth water! My family has never wanted for good food, especially during the holidays. The tradition of sharing great food in enormous portions with crowds of people was handed down to my mom from my grandmother.

My Polish grandmother lived for the Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year’s Eve feasts. She enthusiastically hosted these three dinners every year until she was 100 years old. Our Thanksgiving celebration this year will be the first without her. I remember hugging her as she opened the door to her home every Thanksgiving. I can still feel her and smell the amazing aroma that permeated every nook of her house. She always awoke at 4am to put the turkey in the oven after baking her homemade pumpkin pies. Dinner always began with her leading the family in prayer and thanking God for keeping us all together. The feast, which took several days to prepare, was always consumed in less than thirty minutes, and the cleanup took several hours. I carry those precious memories in my heart and know we will all feel her presence and honor her by counting our blessings. Our cornucopia is full. It’s not the material things that she left behind that will sustain us but her spirit of sharing the bounty the Lord provides and knowing that love never dies. Her secret to longevity was “praying without ceasing.” The birth of my nephew preceded the death of my grandmother, and his presence in our lives has served to dull the pain of her loss. His snuggles are a cure-all for everything. I feel his Eskimo kisses every time I think about him. I stay with my sister and her family whenever I visit Northeastern Pennsylvania, and although her house is not my home, holding my nephew feels like “home.” My mom glows when she is in the presence of that precious bambino. She sings to him and dances polkas with him. Under her expert tutelage, he is a pierogi lover-in-training! Seeing her joy feels like “home.”

For twenty-six years, I have listened to my father (Deacon Joe) preach at mass. My husband marvels at my dad’s ability to talk off the top of his head while conveying a meaningful message. My dad is completely at home in the presence of a congregation. When I was first hired to lecture at the Art Institute, my dad cautioned me about using notes or merely reading the textbook to the students. He didn’t think that was teaching. I heeded his advice and based my lectures off of the chapters and consulted outside sources, including movies from big and small screens. With our classes being set up in four-hour time blocks, I had a lot of time to fill. Every lecture generated new and different discussions. When I was a graduate student, the concentration on applied music, music history and theory was intense. There was little time for outside interests. Although that approach allowed me to excel in music performance and academics, it was of little help in my academic world at the Art Institute. I had many people of diverse backgrounds with little or no music training sitting in my classes. It became imperative for me to gain a greater understanding of the people I was teaching, so I began to absorb some of their interests. In order to reach the animation and film students, I bought an entire collection of Disney DVD’s and Warner Brothers shorts. I analyzed the manner in which classical music was used to enhance the entertainment value and discussed the overall philosophical overtones. The students educated me on the technical elements of production and compared and contrasted hand-drawn characters versus computer-enhanced animation. The more I studied their worlds, the more I appreciated my own. Balancing my interests in the professional world as opposed to focusing solely on fine art as I had in graduate school made me a well-rounded professor and a much better flutist. My mind was opened and lecturing became as natural as breathing. I enjoyed thinking “outside the box.” Discussing Walt Disney’s Fantasia and reading Beethoven’s Heiligenstadt Testament aloud gave me goosebumps. My lectures were more colorful than the plain, white classroom walls. Although we were housed in a sterile environment without any windows, my classroom had a giant movie screen and ten-speaker surround sound. It was far from “homey,” but it felt like home on account of the students who interacted with me. Every quarter one batch of students would leave and another filled the vacated space. As long as they engaged with me, I was “home.” My classes became popular on account of my passion and enthusiasm, and I was quickly labeled the “happiest teacher in the school.” I loved articulating what I do naturally, and it brought me an abundance of pure joy and unequalled satisfaction.

My husband and I bought a townhouse one month before we got married. It is filled with stuff that has been meaningful to each of us on our journeys as individuals, and we are now collecting trinkets to remind us of our journey as one body/one heart. Our home is filled with pictures. Wedding photos abound on our first floor. Each provides a snapshot of a memorable moment in time. One look at a particular photo, and I am there. Linear time does not exist. That past moment is as real to me in the present as it was in “real time.”  When I play my flute in a roomful of pictures of my loved ones, my belief that past, present and future overlap is solidified, and the veil between this world and the next is very thin. The homestead in which I grew up had an artificial fireplace, but our home has a working gas fireplace. Autumn is my favorite time of year because the warmth of the burning fireplace mirrors the warmth of my heart. We love to cuddle up close together and watch our favorite movies. In the words of Judy Garland, “There’s no place like home.” It is no wonder that Over the Rainbow was the number one song of the entire twentieth century, according to a 2001 poll conducted by the National Endowment for the Arts. Movies with a message are meaningful. Home is where your heart is. Billy Joel nailed it as well:

You’re my castle. You’re my cabin and my instant pleasure dome. I need you in my house, ‘cause you’re my home.