Well, hello there. Did that get your attention? Snap your head right back around and have you say, "What?" Yes, me too.
As some of you may have gathered, those who were paying closer attention than others, those who stop by this sometimes very lonely space even when there's really no reason to stop by this very lonely space, I was on a journey last week. It was a spiritual journey. Well, kind of. Oh, no, well, maybe not? I don't know? It certainly felt spiritual in some spots, in others it felt like having surgery without anesthesia. Not that I actually know what having surgery without anesthesia truly feels like, unless we count that time I was living in London and had that god awful tooth ache and had to rely on the good old National Health Services to take care of it for me and while I absolutely still am an advocate for socialized medicine, I will share that having the National health Services perform dental work without the use of any anesthesia is not your idea of a good trip to London. So make sure you brush and floss regularly.
Where was I?
Oh, yes. Last week. At my mother's home. Where she's lived with all her earthly belongings (as well as everything she's believed it was oh so important to savesavesave) for the past 20 years. That she sold. That she needed sorted, boxed and packed into a moving truck. Because guess what everyone? In case you have not heard, have not received the National Emergency Broadcast Alert, Emily Gilmore is moving to Utah. Last time I inquired, with those who know such things, there is only one Utah in these United States of America. The same one Utah that I currently call home.
You all know where this is going, don't you?
The unearthing, sorting, and packing of my mother's house last week unearthed plenty of my own childhood demons, as well. Stuffed into the back of closets, into the bottom of drawers, back in the corner of the basement and forgotten for years were scraps and tokens of memories that dusted themselves off, paraded around and practically shook my shoulders in their glee to be remembered. As with any visit between me and Emily Gilmore, old behaviors surfaced quickly and even the matter of how many coffee mugs to truly pack for the long ride across America became a subject of debate.
I was doing my best to be gracious, to be understanding, to realize that for Emily, this is all rather traumatic. I kept reminding myself that she is an adult. This is an adult decision. She is choosing to leave her home, really the only place she's lived her entire adult life, to move 2000 miles away and live in the land of Mormon.
At some point, though, in that short 36 hours, I just became far too overwhelmed and found myself, as I often did as a child, crammed into the back of a dark empty closet, sitting on the floor, knees to chest, sobbing. The scariest part for me was that I was not at all sure why?
(It seems almost anti climatic to share, right here, right now, at this moment, that I have met someone. However, it is at this point in the story that he makes an important appearance. So, Internet? I've met someone. He will begin appearing now. Perhaps with some frequency. We'll call him The Outlaw.)
Inside that closet, in the dark, my sobs drowning out the world of chaos that swirled just beyond the closed doors, my phone buzzed inside my jacket pocket. What surprised me, completely, was that The Outlaw, who honestly barely knows me, called at all, but even more so, that he called at that moment because "you seem forlorn." Calmly, gently, carefully, he talked me back into this orbit, back from the oh so scary places that my childhood self can navigate without a compass, back into my own body with the tear stained cheeks and snotty nose and out of the closet.
Of course, we all know, especially I know, that even if The Outlaw had not called that night, I would have eventually found my way back into my body and out of the closet. I always have in one fashion or another, sometimes leaving a bit of myself there behind, but always pretty much at least somewhat in tact. What hit me, though, squarely in my chest that evening, in the darkness, in the closet, was the compassion and kindness I felt being shared with me so utterly freely, completely and unconditionally.
It scared me. Yes, it scared me. Could I actually be on the receiving end of thoughtfulness and understanding at this juncture in a new relationship? Was this real? Was The Outlaw truly so kind and generous or was my heart beginning to race because this was just another set up to shatter it?
His words, my words, our words kept flitting and tripping and falling and flowing until it just didn't matter what my heart or my head felt. The only thing that truly mattered was the moment we were in. I was here. I was present. I was.
The car packed to overflowing, my sister, NeverNakedBeth and I spent the next four days navigating, moment to moment, the Interstates that connect our childhood home to our current one. The Outlaw peppered the journey with a heart-skipping staccato of messages that always made me smile. It's a curious thing, honestly, this sharing such proximity with my sister. Until I crash landed here nearly two years ago, my sister and I had what could best be described as a formal familiar relationship. We saw each other once a year. We were kind, as sisters should be. We loved each other because we were family.
I shared with NeverNakedBeth, as we wove our way through the orange and red and yellow speckled valleys of America, that while I could have never gazed into any crystal ball two years ago and have predicted that I'd be living in Utah, I was both glad and grateful for her love, her kindness, her compassion and, most of all, her friendship. I took that opportunity, crammed in the front seat of our mother's car, snacks of Triscuits between us, to share with her that I truly loved her and to thank her for being my sister.
I talk often about how family is not the family we are born with, but the family we choose. My family is quite large, it is vast, it encompasses many beautiful faces and souls from all facets of my life on all continents of this planet. What I learned, though, on this journey, is that my family, the family that knows my secrets and has kept them stuffed deep in closets, that pushes my buttons and keeps childhood treasures boxed even when I insist they be thrown away, that will love me fiercely despite my obvious chinks and flaws, is very much mine and is very much here.
Welcome to Utah, Emily. Welcome Home.
