Going Home
I had a long conversation with a friend last night while I was packing my bags and getting ready for my trip today. We were talking about life--how to live and not just exist; how we were grateful that we no longer wanted to die every day; how much our friends meant to us now; what we would do differently; and I mentioned how I just wished there were more 'something', joie de vivre, something....Then the conversation moved to relationship and whether that particular longing was the hole that wants to be whole? Would we really be happier in a marriage? I started crying as the truth came bubbling up from me: that going home always brings up such tremendous grief about not being loved. And in the moment of saying it and all the follow-up conversation around it, we realized that it's always and ever about being able to receive the love that's there. It may not look like what you expect (husband, kids, etc.) but nevertheless there is love. And it has to begin within me.
Going home is challenging because for many years I was an the outsider (religiously, politically, you-name-it); I guess I still am but I don't feel it so strongly any more. I'm less defensive. (We do grow up--sometimes.) But there is still the ache when I go home of being the unmarried child. For years it felt as if my family didn't even know how to relate to me outside of a relationship. That's changing too, over time. But the ache remains when I witness my beautiful family and their long, mostly happy marriages and their gorgeous, talented kids--who are well on their way to adulthood now. Oh well. Buck up as they say in the pictures.
Because in the end, it's always about my relationship with myself. I have had those moments where I'm in the flow of life and love and even the softed breeze can feel like God is caressing my cheek. I've experienced the cathedral wtihin me. I've felt the heights. But it's always nice to have a friend sit on your couch drinking yogi tea remind you of the truth of things: It's an inside job.
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