Do you remember . . .
. . . a time in your childhood when you were so engrossed in outdoor play that you had to be reminded to come inside for dinner?
Read More“What do you take?” asked my friend, Marianne.
Her question was so casual, I thought I’d misheard her.
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December 1973. Nine family members and I stood in a circle in the middle of my uncle’s living room—my brother Burgess, my parents, my father’s parents, Uncle Cap and Aunt Betty, and their two teenaged kids, Chriscelle and Chip. We were summonsed by Uncle Cap, my father’s brother, who wanted to pray for safe travels as our time together was coming to a close following the Christmas holidays. Bags were packed. Cars loaded. The only thing left to do before getting on the road was pray.
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“I know the truth about the Easter Bunny,” Burgess told me one bright blue-skied afternoon following my nap. I was four years old, he’d just turned five. We were in the playroom where big double windows overlooked still-bare trees dotting the hillside behind our apartment in Asheville’s Manor Grounds, dividing our little plastic animals for a round of Little House into his family and mine. Dust motes danced in the streams of late afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows like microscopic snow in a freshly shaken snow globe. I loved to sit where the sunshine warmed my back as we played.
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Last night I hosted a Sacred Circle gathering of Wise Women for the second month in a row. It’s been on my mind for at least a year to start a group like this, but I just kept putting it off thinking that the time just wasn’t “right.” Finally, I took the plunge and reached out to one of the wisest women I know - Jasmine - to help me facilitate the group, thinking there was strength (and courage) in numbers. It did not take any convincing for her to say yes.
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For a long time it had seemed to me that life was about to begin - real life. But there was always some obstacle in the way, something to be gotten through first, some unfinished business, time still to be served, a debt to be paid. The life would begin. At last it dawned on me that these obstacles were my life.
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I used to tout the benefits of the plethora of nutrients contained in this bright red smoothie, ad nauseam until my listener’s eyes glazed over, but honestly, the bottom line is that it’s got a ton of good-for-you stuff in it, it tastes good, and it’s red! What more could you want for Valentine’s Day breakfast???
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I sometimes struggle with the confidence to walk in my truth - my “calling,” for lack of a better word - about what my role is in this particular period of this lifetime. Fortunately, the struggle is less frequent these days as I pay more honor to my ‘gut’ and take risks to follow my instincts. I’m often pleasantly surprised by the outcome.
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I’ve been on a life-long search for a place where I belong. This search manifests in a myriad of ways, I now know, thanks to therapy. The idea of a ‘home place’ has been important to me for as long as I can remember, yet always seemed elusive.
There’s no place like home.
From a young age, I wanted this mantra to conjure up the magic others attribute to it, to no avail. One could say it’s simply not in my DNA.
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This is an excerpt from my memoir, Unpacking. Trigger alert: the subject matter focuses on my brother’s suicide and the discovery of his body.
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In the early-morning hours I had a dream in which I was preparing to give a presentation about my findings on the influence of limbic resonance in relationships, using a hand-held apple pie as an illustration. I was seated in the back of the audience and my partner, in the front. Just prior to our turn to present, the thought crossed my mind, “I have absolutely NO idea what ‘limbic resonance’ IS!”
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