My Anywhere But Here Blog

🌿 The Care and Keeping of My Anywhere But Here

There is a place I return to often—

not somewhere you can find on a map,

not somewhere you arrive at by car or plane,

but a space that exists quietly within me.

My Anywhere But Here.

It is not an escape from life—

not a denial of what is real—

but a place where I can breathe within it.

Where the noise softens,

and something steadier has room to rise.

But what I have come to understand is this:

I have become neglectful of it these past couple of weeks.

This place does not stay whole on its own.

⸻

]Like any garden,

like any home that is meant to be lived in,

it requires tending.

I honestly feel as if I have been neglectful of the rules in this space.

I have let things pile up—not like dust or smudges on windows,

but rather on the very foundation by which it was established: peace.

I have been neglecting it by allowing things to seep into my space:

🎭 Drama

😤 Stress

🫁 Medical health vs. mental health 🧠

And not just once—but several times lately.

We have to remember to tend to the precious gift of this space.

Not just once in a blue moon—

(which, by the way, My Anywhere But Here does not have a blue moon).

So we must tend to it continually.

Because life has a way of tracking things in—

Dust that settles quietly

Odd, lingering odors

Mud on the floors

Even our landscaping needs tending:

Weeds in the corners

Storms that leave branches where there once was open space

And if we are not careful,

what was once a refuge

can begin to feel overgrown…

unrecognizable…

hard to rest in.

I think my space has started to lean this way.

⸻

There are days when the weeds come quietly,

when the dust creeps in,

when the freshness dissolves.

A thought we didn’t invite.

A fear that lingers longer than it should.

A conversation that echoes in ways we wish it wouldn’t.

And if left unattended,

those small things begin to take root.

They wrap themselves around what was once peaceful,

crowding out the light,

competing for space in a place that was never meant to hold them.

So we learn—

to gently pull them.

Not with force.

Not with frustration.

But with awareness.

To say:

This does not belong here.

And then, with care,

to remove it.

To freshen up on the rules we once put in place:

• Respect—and leaving stress outside
• Listening to our inner voice
• Recognizing our worth
• Speaking honestly and kindly
• Valuing differences
• And never forgetting the Golden Rule:
  “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”

When you revisit these each week, you begin to see results.

But if you tell yourself, “I already know these,”

then ask—are they sealed in your mind… or truly in your heart?

⸻

There can also be seasons

when the ground feels dry.

When the beauty we once felt there

seems harder to access.

When the colors fade a little,

and the air feels still.

These are the moments

we are tempted to walk away.

To believe that maybe the space has lost its purpose.

But even then—

especially then—

it needs us.

Watering doesn’t always feel meaningful in the moment.

Neither does showing up when nothing seems to bloom.

But quiet faithfulness has a way of restoring what feels lost.

Little by little…

life returns.

⸻

And then this is where pruning comes in.

The harder work.

The honest work.

The willingness to look at what we have allowed to grow

that no longer serves the space.

Old patterns.

Heavy narratives.

Attachments to things that drain rather than restore.

Cutting them back can feel like loss.

But it is not loss—

it is making room.

Room for light to reach places it couldn’t before.

Room for new growth that aligns with who we are becoming.

⸻

There is another kind of tending

we don’t always think about.

Not the kind that clears weeds

or restores order…

but the kind that reminds us

why the space exists in the first place.

Because if we’re not careful,

we can spend all our time maintaining

and forget to actually live within it.

There’s a song that lingers in my mind sometimes—

especially on the days when life feels like a list that never quite ends:

“Under an old brass paperweight

is my list of things to do today…

I cross ’em off as I get ’em done,

but when the sun is set…

there’s still more than a few things left

I haven’t got to yet.”

And isn’t that the truth?

There is always more to do.

Always something left unfinished.

Always another task waiting its turn.

But somewhere in the middle of all of that…

there is a quieter invitation:

🌿 Go for a walk, say a little prayer…

Take a deep breath of Mountain air …

Look up an old lost friend of mine…

Start livin’—that’s the next thing on my list.

Maybe tending our Anywhere But Here

isn’t just about keeping it clear and peaceful…

Maybe it’s also about remembering

to sit down once in a while.

To breathe.

To notice.

To let the space hold us

instead of always feeling responsible for holding it together.

And maybe that’s where we begin to understand it differently…

A livable space is not one that is untouched—

it is one that is cared for.

⸻

In My Anywhere But Here,

I am learning that maintenance is not a burden.

It is an act of love.

It is choosing, again and again,

what is allowed to stay

and what must be released.

It is noticing when something feels off

before it becomes overwhelming.

It is returning—

even on the days I don’t feel like it—

and tending to what has been entrusted to me.

⸻

Because this space matters.

Not as a place to hide—

but as a place to steady myself

so I can return to life more grounded,

more present,

more whole.

And the truth is…

it will never be finished.

There will always be something to adjust,

something to clear,

something to nurture.

But maybe that is not something to resist.

Maybe that is the beauty of it.

That we are not just given this space—

we are invited to participate in it.

To shape it.

To care for it.

To keep it livable.

⸻

And so I return—

not because it is perfect,

but because it is mine.

And because in tending to it,

I am, quietly,

tending to myself.

⸻

Susan Thomas

🌿 In My Anywhere But Here, we gently tend what matters—

clearing space for peace, and making room for what still wants to grow. 🌿