The house key sticks in the unfamiliar lock of the door. Finally, I find the perfect jiggle and then use my shoulder to push it open.

I look around at the empty space and feel the urge to cry.

It’s been a mind-bending weekend away, and now I’m back home.

Or rather, I’m back in my third home.

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You may remember that my husband and I sold our big old Southern home almost two years ago, now. And then we downsized to this new neighborhood in the same town.

Less than 1,000 square feet now – we were so proud of ourselves.

And then, of course, we needed elbow room, and decided to remodel – just add on a little bit.

Which brings us to now – having to rent a house down the street while the new construction takes place.

And I’m having a surreal moment where the old house, the new one, and this rental are all super-imposed on my brain, and it’s really unsettling.

Never before have I felt so strongly that a house is really a soul.

And my soul feels empty now, I’m a little sad and off-balance.

It’s a hangover of grief from saying goodbye to my high school friends after a small reunion last weekend.

A group of 20 from our class planned a gathering and it turned into the most meaningful, healing time.

Talk about surreal.

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And today, it comes to me that each of us live in the house of the present, and we have a past house and then a future one down the road.

And we live in all three at the same time.

I definitely like to compartmentalize things and keep it all separate, but right now it all comes together.

For 45 years I had little to no contact with my old friends. It was a painful time, and I tended to write it all off as – I was a mess, a failure, I left no mark.

But of course I did.

And this past weekend my friends embraced me and reminded me of that old person I used to be – bubbly, expressive, caring.

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You see, I fled my hometown, and never really looked back.

I struggled to mature and figure things out – to heal from some pretty tough memories.

I learned how to take care of my mental health.

I learned how to be a partner and a parent.

I’m still learning.

Anyway, I can’t adequately express what this past weekend meant to me, except to say that I’m so grateful I went back to that house of the past.

It is where I learned to live in this one, and it’s given me a little bit of courage to move on to the next one.

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These days, I’m scared to drive down the old street in town where I used to live. But I make myself do it every now and then.

I watch how the new owners are tearing the walls down, and renovating.

New paint colors. Ripped out landscaping.

And what happened to my chicken coop?

I don’t know why I torture myself like this but maybe it’s this need to keep the past with me.

To lay out all of the puzzle pieces to make it complete.

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I’m taking a new meditation class, and my favorite practice is Lovingkindness. In it, we focus on extending goodwill to our selves.

We open our hearts to generosity, forgiveness and compassion.

It is an ancient practice that guides you to affirm yourself. And then you extend your thoughts to a loved one, and then to a neutral person and then to a difficult person.

And then to the whole world.

But a key concept is that we cannot love the whole world without loving ourselves first.

We cannot love the whole world without loving ourselves first

A part of my soul was missing before I went back to my hometown. It’s the part that I’m now sending lovingkindness to over and over again.

Because what I had forgotten was the love.

The love that was shown to me back then.

I tended to dwell on the pain, as if it was a solo experience. I didn’t look up to see the friends that cared for and wanted to stick by me, even when I walked away from them.

And so, too, when I drive past our old pink house, I’ll try to remember the love, not forgetting the struggles and pains that inhabited that place too, but all of it.

And I’ll try to use the meditation as an investigation into all of it – the past, the present and the future, and always keep opening my heart up to the love.