The simplest questions are the most profound. Where were you born? Where is your home? Where are you going? What are you doing? Think about these once in a while and watch your answers change.---Richard Bach
I read this quote recently, and have been pondering it, as I've been pondering my life. This is what I think here and now. As with the rest of life, it's subject to change.
Where were you born?
Biologically, I was born in Council Bluffs, IA, but I’ve had points in my life where the changes were so great or where the ah ha moments were so astounding that I felt as if I had shed my skin and been born to something else. Oddly enough, many of these have involved travel. The first was when I went to Ecuador for a summer foreign exchange between my junior and senior year of high school. My family life growing up was fairly dysfunctional; I knew this intellectually, but staying with another large family helped me feel the dysfunction emotionally. This, in turn, led me to a very circuitous path of therapy in my adult life which saved my life.
The second time I felt that shift in gravity, in the way the world worked, and in the way I functioned in it was when I spent a year in Wales during college. This was really the first time I found other people who treasured what I did, or at least understood, accepted, and valued intellectual interests. I had written poetry in my head for a long time, and while some of it was written down, much of it was not. In Wales, it was okay to be with people, think of something, stop, ponder it, and then write something down. I didn’t get the – “what are you doing?” “come on, why are you so slow?” “what are you writing?” It was okay to do this. I didn’t have to share unless I wanted to, and it was accepted as part of who I was. This, and other situations, helped me see that I was holding my breath, taking up as little space as possible, trying not to be seen and hurt. I was invisible, and this is the first time I bumped into that realization, and started realizing that it was okay to exist as myself.
The last time I was born again to the world was in the process of some very deep therapy. I started to learn that my pain would not destroy me, and that being visible would not result in my death or destruction. Many, many dark corners were opened and aired out, and my life shifted. Even though I still struggle with my past, it is not as weighty or all-consuming.
Where is your home?
I was surprised at the amount of sadness this question brought up. I don’t know that I have a home at the moment. I haven’t felt that I have had one for several years. Missoula was home, but I left in late fall 2006, and have felt displaced ever since. I’ve known that nothing since then has been permanent, so nothing has felt settled. I am a plant with its roots dangling in air. For some people, this might work. For me, I put things off until I’m settled and so I end up living in the future, thinking more about someday than here and now. I have wasted months and years of my life this way. Now that 50 is right around the corner, I’m not comfortable with wasting time that now seems more finite and not as boundless as when I was in my 20s.
Where are you going?
Again, I am adrift. I’m not sure where I’m going. Until graduation, I was going to finish school and find a job as a librarian. Now that I have a job, I’m not sure. Being a librarian is another thing I can do, that I could be good at if I wanted. But it’s not what my heart wants. And I don’t know what to do with that realization. Should I just settle for this as a job, and if that’s the case, do I want to settle for a job in a location that fits me better? Or is this particular job just not a good match, and how much time do I give it? I’m not sure that I trust myself enough to do what my heart wants, either.
What are you doing?
I feel like I am avoiding my life, like I’m trying to dance sideways around what would nourish me, what would be real, what I could do to truly contribute to the world. My problem is that I’m a writer who doesn’t write, who is always looking for something compatible with writing, something I could do AND write. I avoid writing by dancing around it. I’m not sure why. When I do write, I feel at home in my life, in my soul. Is not writing just another way to be invisible, to let the darkness win? I don’t know. I would guess yes.
I feel like I’ve lost some ground, some of the openness I gained through therapy. I still carry this body tension, this boundary wall with me at all times. I’ve hoped that it would soften over time, but for that to happen, I would have to trust the world. I don’t trust the world completely. I have a great deal of hope, but in the back of my mind, there is still some amount of fear of destruction, of annihilation, that I can’t release. Being able to be visible is something I accept intellectually. I struggle with accepting it emotionally. Until I can do this, my life will be a partial shadow of what it could be. I have learned not to beat myself up for this limitation, at least. I know it’s common in people who were abused, especially at a young age. I’ve made a very uneasy peace with the knowledge that this fear still lives inside me. Maybe someday I will make my peace with this fear, too. I don’t know that, either.
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