(longest title for a blog i’ve ever written.)
Friday was rough.
it started out really strong, as i excitedly packed my entire room and moved most of it to the new house. as time went on, though, something deep down broke, like a busted pipe, and out poured a fountain of tears and grief.
it was as if, for the first time, i really allowed myself to feel what i’d been suppressing for 7 mos, to feel the end of something that was supposed to have so much promise and potential, to grieve the loss of a friend.
at one point, while i was at the gallery alone, i just walked out to the parking pad outside our door and cried. the sky, it seemed, was on my side, gray and cloudy. we mourned together.
later that night, after the day was done, i tried to go “home,” but that has never really been my home. with all the tension and anger and frustration that’s happened within its walls, i could not find any comfort. the idea of driving out to Lebanon, to go past my childhood home hatched and i set off.
i cried all the way there. the man called to ask what was going on, and my only real response: “i’m so tired of feeling so fucking homeless.”
“you’re not homeless,” he pleaded, “come to me.” i decided to follow through with my plan, but assured him i would be there soon.
the roads were dark, but i could still see this land that was once so familiar to me. the fields, the gravel roads that led to the homes of friends, now long gone–moved or dead. the more i looked, the more i realized just how different everything is. it was like driving through a ghost town.
finally i turned on 700 W, and the very sight of the sign sent me into deep tears. i don’t know why, but when i’m feeling especially rootless, going back to this place helps me grieve. i cry for the family we had, for the memories in pine trees and corn fields, for the time when my family was together and i had a place i could fall back on.
i went past the house twice, noting the change in landscape and neighbors’s houses. then i pointed my car back toward Indy, toward the man waiting for me to come back off the edge. as i got closer and closer to him, i felt something new spring up. something a lot like hope.
that’s the thing about upheaval…it’s terribly traumatic, and no life can come with out a forging process. but just as the ground is turned up and over, again and again, until it’s suitable for planting, often our lives needs the same kind of motion. a turning up and over and crushing in of everything we knew, so that something new can spring up.
maybe home is only ever in the arms of someone who loves you.