This past weekend I visited my sister and her family in Vermont. And yes–we went skiing. It was fabulous! Yes Vermont was lovely with the snow-kissed trees, the star-filled nights, and the gleaming ski slopes.
With that said, the trip was fantastic because I got to hang out with my sister and her family. When we spent time together it was great because we got to spend time together.
We told stories.
Lots of stories!
Some of the stories had us in stitches.
Some of the stories caused eyes to roll.
And some stories (because they were told by someone else) shed new light to the story I knew so well.
It made me think back to being a teenager (the stage of life her kids are currently in or entering…God bless them!) and how my eyes were always pointed away toward something else.
As a teenager
I cringed at anything that was part of me and resembled my parents. (Egads become a teacher or a pastor?! Are you joking?! NEVERRRRRR!)
Also as a teenager
I was hyper aware of comparing myself to my brother or sister. As the youngest I felt an intense pressure (brought on by me and no one else) to be better.
Better at school.
Better at extracurricular activities.
Better at how many friends I had.
Better looking.
Most of the time…I felt I miserably failed at being ‘better.’
Most of the time I compared myself so much that it led to unreasonable expectations (this is where I learned that foot size is NOT a direct correlation to height. DARN IT!) or I jumped into subjects I didn’t really care about.
Perhaps worst of all, I constantly felt a strange external criteria that (negatively) drove my self worth.
Eventually, I felt like I just had to get away and not only be “better,” but get away and be different.
And in order to find me I had to find my home.
Fast forward many years. Some of them (with the passage of time) were comically bad.
Some of them were blessedly good.
But I am finding now as I grow older (and hopefully more wise and comfortable with my identity), that I long to return to my roots.
Perhaps this explains why I so wanted to go to my high school reunion a few years back.
Perhaps this longing to return to my roots is why when I hear news of the death of a school or church friend from my youth it really hits me hard.
Perhaps it’s why weekends with siblings and storytelling is so life giving.
At this stage of life–with years of having my eyes pointed outward–perhaps I’m at a place where my eyes can point to the paths from which I came. I’m comfortable where I am. I’m good with who I am. I love the people with whom I live life. But I find my eyes returning to the places and people who formed my first ‘home.’
The other day I finished a novel titled Leaving Everything Most Loved by Jacqueline Winspear. It is part of the Maisie Dobbs series. As I turned the pages I encountered this statement coming from one of the characters,
“Perhaps you must leave to come home to yourself…”
Leaving Everything Most Loved, pg. 327
So where is home?
For me–home is in Lancaster, Pennsylvania (though I would never describe myself as a Pennsylvanian). Home is wherever my husband and my daughter are present.
Home is warmed by stories that remind me of who I was…and in many ways who I still am.
Home is the peace of my present self staring at my past self in an honest light.
Where is home for you?
