There was a party at my house last Saturday night. It was a pretty big party and one I notified the neighbors about so they would be prepared for the traffic, people, noise and a yard full of lights. But this wasn’t my party. I wasn’t the host. I was essentially the venue.
My great-nephew Kristopher (see My Graduate) is graduating from high school and his parents threw his party at my house. They made the plans, bought the supplies and food and spent the time stringing up a mile of lights around my house. Tables and chairs filled the back yard and food/beverage tables were set up on the back porch deck. A jumping castle that could hold adults was set up in the front yard (fondly called the football field) was a dead giveaway there was something happening here to passing vehicles.
I was the venue. It was also my gift. I have this big place that Kristopher, along with his siblings, grew up coming here. It was an interesting dynamic for me not being the host. I am a pretty good party planner and most people enjoy a party at my place. But this was about Kristopher and his parents. Indeed, there was family I am related to and mutual friends in attendance, but I found a balance helping my niece with the steady refilling of food dishes and running interference when something needed attention so she could spend time with her guests.
A day later and the only signs of a party are the full garbage cans ready for Wednesday’s collection and the occasional glow necklace or bracelet in the grass. My home is at peace now, gathering energy for the next party, my own or otherwise. I’m open.