Going home

This blog began writing itself in my head just over a month ago, when I was housesitting in my hometown for a 3-day weekend. I wanted to write about the weight that settles over me as I approach the freeway exit, like something is trying to get its hooks in me and I can't fight hard enough to get away.  I feel a sense of entrapment. People who wanted to escape the small town legacy, people who don't hope for more, who can't imagine what lies outside of this place. I think I've escaped...but have I really?

As far as today goes, perhaps the true grown-ups are right and I'm just a whining baby. "Oh you silly child, 30 isn't old!" (Let's just consider where life has walked me for a moment, or what I do for a living.  Child?) Why is my life not allowed to be what it is, which is "difficult" right now? Why can my experience and feelings never be heard? It's not okay to cut me off when I try to join a conversation. I really wanted to share with my family. I really felt like I had something to contribute. Why must I be approaching 60 in order to have had any life experience? When I give up and disappear from the table, everyone wonders where I've gone. When I stay, my words are expendable; my job is to listen and nod empathically, not to have a story of my own. Apparently I can't even handle mixing bagged stuffing without instruction - even though I used to cook for a living!

Well, Emma - you can't return my words with words of your own, but you talk to me with your eyes, and you always appreciate my solitary company. A 2-mile walk is good for our heads and stuffied tummies. (Yes, the dog got her own Thanksgiving plate. It's her house, she just lets us stay there sometimes.)

Something pulled at me as I drove out of town tonight. I really wanted to see my old house. I don't know, maybe I needed to affirm that the experiences of my past have been real, whether 5 months, 5 years, or 20 years past. All of my old neighbors had their decorations out - neighbors who smiled at me for 3 1/2 years, who blew out my driveway during blizzards, and who nabbed my renegade dog more times than I can count. I could almost see myself walking Emma - in our neighborhood, rather than on the streets of my childhood tonight. I could well-imagine the scent of the wintering air under the moonlight without so much as cracking the car window. To be driving these roads - my roads - in this itty-bitty town that I never even wanted to live in, felt ancient and awkward, yet automatic and familiar. Close, and very real.

The new owners of my home haven't changed many things. There are new lights along the driveway (I always wanted to replace those) and a few new shrubs in the flower box (I wanted to do that too, but I was too sad). I'm confused: where is the dog in the backyard? Why did I leave the basement light on? Where are my decorations? Who does that car in the driveway belong to? Do I have unexpected company?

I haven't forgotten to be thankful today. Families are what they are: difficult yet very cherished. Life is what it is: hard and sorrowful at times, but also grand, joyful, and too short to fill with resentment instead of gratitude.

The past is near. No one else may cry for my experiences. But I do.