Not in West Virginia to "find myself"
Wednesday, 25 March, 2009 at 12:03 PM ;)
As we drove up to the long-empty house in West Virginia last night, my friend said, "Are you sure you want to do this?" In that moment, I wasn't 100% certain what my honest answer would be. "Are you kidding me? Let's go back this minute!" crossed my mind. But so did, "Yes, of course I'm sure." The most authentic answer hung somewhere in the middle of these two extremes.
This morning, now that the hot water is flowing properly, the rooms are warm, the carpets have been vacuumed and I've had a good night's sleep, I calmly sip my coffee and look out the picture window in the den. The same picture window my childhood friend and I ran to pull the drapes to cover the night we practically sat in each other's laps secretly watching The Shining at 2am after my grandparents got HBO. I am drinking gourmet coffee that came from a market in Greensboro that I already miss. Looking out that window, I have a quiet talk with myself. Not the talk I've had with the 73 people who've asked me, "Now why is it that you're going to live in that house in West Virginia, again?" The talk with myself is calmer, less refined than the spiel I've given them. I don't have to give myself the back story I tell my friends. My listening ear doesn't need to hear the setup of how I've always wanted to do something a little solitary and bold. I don't need to be reminded of how my Uber Extroverted Life needs a little kick back toward a more balanced existence, and that something extreme like leaving the town I love just may be the ticket.
The talk I have with myself this morning started with the memories of people who used to use that phrase, "She's finding herself." Those words may have applied to me years ago, but these days I'm feeling more confident than ever that I know exactly who I am. But what is just as clear to me is that although I don't need to find Melody, I sure could use some quiet time with her. In the drizzly, semi-gray light of day this morning, I look out with eyes filled with reality, the shimmer of nostalgia solidly peeled away, and see both beautiful and ugly sights. I want to embrace them all.
A few years ago, someone ran a truck into the corner of the barn that sits up the hill from this house; it needs to come down. I look at this barn and feel sadness that it doesn't throw off the brilliant colors seen in the photo my mom used to have hanging on the wall in our house. I want to blame the guy with the truck. But it's not his fault the barn has aged. The timbers are almost certainly rotting and when I walk up there later today, I'm nearly certain I will find moss growing on some of the surfaces I've only observed from the driveway yesterday and the kitchen window this morning. But ugly as it seems compared to the beautiful structure in my memory, it's beautiful, too. The aged building - no longer really a building as I'd be a fool to try to enter now - has texture and depth and knows stories I'll never know.
I want to carry my camera with me as I explore this property, and find beauty all around me. Even as I stood in the front yard and looked over at the other house, last night, recognizing the presence of disappointment that the view before me was bland and paltry alongside the vividness of my memories, I want to create some new ones. I want to examine these spaces with the eye of an artist. I want to look for light as my photography teacher instructed us. I want to focus in on tiny spaces and surfaces, examining each part of this property in parts rather than the whole, admiring each element for its authentic beauty. I look now at a tree in the neighbor's yard. Nearby is the bold orange and blue of a Little Tykes sliding board that suggests the children I knew as a child now perhaps have their own children. The tree branch I see is amazing to me, the gnarled branches snaking out with jutting angles that remind me of arthritic fingers. The moss on one side reminds me of something I last saw at a state park. I want to embrace more of these sights as I make a space for this phase of my life here. I want to notice everything.
I've always known that I may decide to stay a mere few weeks, just as easily as I may decide to remain for months. The remarkable gift my parents agreed to in allowing me to come here is that I don't have to know the outcome. I don't have to have a fully-formed plan right now, to get what I need from this place. Which is, I'm finding, more than I realized when I first made this plan. Perhaps I place too much pressure on the idea of closure and finality. Maybe the idea that I'll put to rest some of the demons of the tougher times spent in this house is just as romanticized as the vivid greens and browns and reds of my remembered summer visits here. Maybe being here will finally show me that while the place holds the secrets of some of the most formative times in my childhood, it's also just a place. A place for me to be still and work and be. With myself, with my work, with my thoughts. I'm not going to find myself here. Years of living took care of that. But I do want to be with myself here. Without the distractions of my lovely community, often taken for granted, I want to work in this room and learn to do my job much better than I do now. And when I can't sit at the computer one minute longer or I'll go mad, I want to get up and walk around the quiet property and find one more thing and then one more thing after that to draw beauty from.
But not yet. This time I'm only here for a few days. I'm going to travel a bit more, do some photos for an event far from here, go to a few appointments I can't meet from here, and then I'll return here and be. I'm not anxious for that phase to start, because I anticipate enjoying the time that stands between now and then, but this morning I feel my anticipation has the perspective of realism. I'm glad I didn't come here alone the first time. I'm glad I had a friend with me to talk some of this through with. I'm glad I came for a few days, letting myself reacclimate to what IS here rather than what my imagination wanted me to believe WAS here.
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Reader Comments (7)
So you're there!
It looks bleak and gray now; although it is officially Spring, it is still late winter there. Your first trip there was just about __years ago, when you were a baby. You got there on a Monday morning, in late March, very much like yesterday, except that there was a big snow on the ground then.
But those bleak, leafless trees will soon turn green. The grass will begin to grow, and hide the brown of the winter months. (BTW, I'm sure that the grass needs cutting, since Mother and I were unable to go back up there after my mishap on Labor Day last year. Wish I could cut it as soon as the rain goes away!). While the beautiful flowers your grandmother used to plant have long been dead, the boxwoods will grow. Some of the beauty you remember will be there, and I don't think you will be disappointed. And, If you look across the road, behind the neighbors' houses, you can see the river, which has flowed there for centuries. The hills will still be there when all of us have left the scene.
While I wish you could have driven up yesterday and seen the beauty you remember from childhood, maybe it will be even better when it reappears in a few more weeks!
Like you, I could reminisce continuously, even though I have never lived there. One of the most important parts of my life--your mother--grew up there. It was home to her!
Love you!
Dad
I love this post.
My blog was given a Sisterhood Award and I have decided to pass it along to you as well! You can go to my blog to check it out:
http://blogsbydenaharris.squarespace.com/imported-data-incharge/2009/3/26/sisterhood-blog-award.html
I am looking forward to taking this jouney with you :)
I hope it brings to you all of the things you hope it to bring.
Gina
You're such a wonderful writer. Thanks for sharing this post. I'm still coming to terms with the fact that in Brenna's and my journey I am "finding myself." It's a phrase, much like midlife crisis, that can cause me to roll my eyes, so I'm having to work through that reality (which I guess would fall under the whole "finding myself" theme.) I hope you'll continue to share some of the conversations Melody has with Melody for however long you end up staying. And, I think your father is so right about getting to watch the beauty reappear. Transitions... you gotta love 'em.
Thank you for sharing this moment with us. You are extraordinary, and you are giving yourself the gift of simply being, without bouncing yourself off of someone else, for a while. Having said that -- I'm glad you had someone to bounce things off of right now too.
Quote by Hafiz: "God and I are like two fat men in a small boat, alway bumping into each other and laughing!"
May you find something kinda like that.
Eek: belated responses...
Dad, thanks for this. Maybe one of the perks of delaying my trip back - again - is that there will be more time for the spring we've seen somewhat south of WV will have had more time to make it that far. Your comment brought even more nostalgia.
Dena, thank you. For loving this AND for the Sisterhood blog award! Way cool!
Gina, that's awesome. When I get nervous about my idea, I recall the people who've pointed out that everybody can't do this, and it feels a little more "right" then. Glad you'll be reading...
Bob, first, thanks for calling me a wonderful writer. Coming from you that especially means a lot. As for the idea that you're finding yourself as you embark upon your own trip - Serious Honkin Trip That Makes My Little Getaways To WV Look Like A Trip To A Friend's House Down The Street - I know what you mean about the weight that phrase carries, and the negative connotations. I wonder, though, if it's not easy to forget that even if we "found ourselves" once, we might have gotten lost in the shuffle, and have to reassess and find the NEW version. Maybe finding a new version of Bob might sound less distasteful? Either way, I love your site and following the progress of your own preparations is magnificent. So deal: we'll both keep writing about the process, and see if it doesn't enhance the journey...
Brenna, your take is more than generous. Sometimes my thoughts of going back to that house seem selfish. Along the lines of "Hm. Well that was fun. What next? Hm. Don't know. Better run away to WV." I don't think that's it, but some days, I wonder. I love your Hafiz quote and hope I find something like that, too. Hope we all do...