I just want to go home.
We’ve all had that
moment, I think. The almost overwhelming need to be somewhere else; a place of
safety and warmth, both physical and emotional. Tears well up in the eyes, the
heart hurts, and you would do anything – anything - to be back home. I
wished that Scotty could beam me there, or that the Doctor would show up in his
TARDIS, or perhaps some fairy godmother I didn’t know I had would finally find
me and whisk me away to that special place called home.
Back in the day,
when my little family consisted of my husband, my baby daughter, and myself, we
were stationed at Lackland AFB in Texas. We spent the day in the small room of
assigned temporary housing, because we could not look for a more permanent
place just then. While my daughter napped, my husband watched over her while I
went for a walk to acclimatize myself to the new environment. I grew up in the
cooler mountains of Utah, so the hot Texas plains took some adjustment. The
sunset was dusty golds and yellows, and it was only then that I remembered it
was Christmas Day. Homesickness washed over me.
The thing is…I
didn’t wish for Christmas. We celebrated with family before we left, and my
childhood memories of that holiday aren’t idyllic. The Texas heat meant no
snow, and I saw no decorations to remind me of the holiday. I realized events
do not trigger homesickness for me.
I couldn’t imagine
I missed the house I grew up in with my five siblings, all still living at home
at the time. A host of teenagers, a busy woodworking shop hip-deep in pine
shavings, and all the clutter and bustle of a household of creative people –
all musicians and artisans, writers and thinkers - meant a household of people
that seldom held still. Newly married, I wanted to create a new life for my new
family, not hold on to my past. (I do miss the rock porch my mom built. Reading
on the porch swing smelling the rain and watching the mountains was so restful.
It’s still there. If it ever gets excavated, they will find a rusted Tonka
truck, busted strap-on skates, and any number of early ‘70’s toys. And rocks. Lots
and lots of rocks.)
So, I thought
about what I might be homesick for, if not the house I grew up in, and decided
it must be the mountains. I missed the cool, dusky smell of the pines, the
whispering susurration of golden quaking aspens in the fall, the smell of the
crumbly, damp earth that never completely dries under their shade, on the
western face of Mount Timpanogos. I wanted to enjoy the long sunrises and
lingering twilights after sunsets, the reflected colors of both on the
mountains when the sun was not above the ridges. To hear the morning song of
birds, the evening chirps of crickets and frogs, watch the stars slowly light
up the sky as the heavens deepened from azure to royal to midnight blue.
To cure the
desperate longing of my soul I needed to walk the mile-long trail up to the
cave of Mount Timpanogos, listen to the guide tell the tale of the Indian
maiden losing her love, laying down on the mountain that now bears her outline,
and see the stalactite that is her frozen heart still pining for her lost one.
To listen to a symphony play Night on Bald Mountain in the open-air amphitheater
on the hillside on a crisp fall evening as the sun goes down, go tubing down
the slopes of Mutual Dell, sit next to a crackling campfire in the arms of my
husband.
That must be home.
The years marched
on. Our family grew and the military moved us from place to place. I visited my
mountains several times. Eventually we moved back into the area. Our children
started school. My husband went through several lifesaving surgeries that left
him disabled.
The mountains did
not rest my soul as they once had. The children needed watching and teaching.
Don’t throw rocks at your brother. Put that stick down. Don’t eat those berries:
they might be poisonous. Stay on the trail. Look at the hawk! Do you see the
deer? Don’t get to close to the fire.
No, you can’t have another marshmallow. You ate them all. Come here and wash
that chocolate off your face.
I worried over my
husband as we learned the new requirements and limitations of his body. I had
to drive instead of watching for wildlife as we drove the familiar roads
because he no longer could. If we left the windows down to enjoy the smell of
the trees, the wind hurt his skin. I needed to consider bathroom breaks,
whether we packed enough food, first aid supplies, dry socks… In short, others
required my attention.
I still got
homesick, but the mountains did not fill the void.
Fast forward a few
more years. The children grew up and eventually moved out. I went back to
school, got some undergraduate degrees, worked on a Master’s degree, then was
accepted to a doctoral program in Britain. The visas took longer than expected.
When we opened the package, we discovered that I could go, but my husband would
not be coming with me.
For the first time
in my life, I lived by myself. It was a different country, a different culture,
and a new way of life. I knew no one, had nowhere to live, and only a
reservation at a bed and breakfast when I landed at the Manchester Airport in
early December after staying awake for nearly two days. A wonderful gentleman with
a delightful cockney accent greeted me as I stepped outside with, “Need a cab,
luv? You look exhausted.” He called me a taxi which took me to my B&B.
England, for me,
was a great adventure. It appealed to the historian in me, adding dimension to
the stories and tales I read all my life as I walked through the Shambles in
York, touched the cool stones that were the remains of Roman walls, watched the
sheep graze while climbing around crumbling, abandoned abbeys, and inhaled the
smokey fog of Bonfire Night. The romantic in me got to see the Christmas
markets and lights on winter nights that started at 3:30 pm, smell nearly
year-round rotating flower displays, watch the fuzzy neon lights of the Curry
Mile through the dripping condensation of the 42 night bus coming home from a
lonely train trip to London, feel the clack of the rails as the Welsh
countryside slid by the windows after my husband’s visa was denied yet again.
I loved my little
flat just off the Curry Mile. I met wonderful people. The research was
engaging. I got to travel to places and see things I never imagined I could.
But when I slowed down, or paused to think, there would be a gaping hole. My
husband of twenty-five years was not there to share it with me. I wanted to
talk to him about the exhibits in the British Museum as I walked through; get
his opinion about the architecture around me; discuss story ideas, historical
details, and nuance that being in a place brings, and all the other amazing
things that having my intellectual and creative equal and partner right next to
me afforded. We resided in the same room for much of our married life, so I
often turned to tell him something to find…no one.
If home is where
the heart is, to be home, I needed to be with him.
Three and a half
years later I came home. We found a nice apartment tucked in a quiet corner
close to all the things we need. But we were out of sync. Before I left, he
finished my sentences as I finished his. It took time to relearn how to live
together again. The time apart cost him dearly, though he never complained. His
health deteriorated as his disability progressed. He did not want to ask for
the things he needed in case it disturbed my work, and I was overly protective,
jumping instantly if he asked.
I was home, but it
wasn’t the safe, protected space I longed for.
The occasional
wave of homesickness washed over me as we learned to live together again, and I
watched him deal with his pain. If being with this man who loved me with a
depth and breadth that brought me to tears didn’t fill that hole, what would? I
already learned that a place or house was not the answer. So, in quiet moments,
I pondered.
I discovered what
I was truly homesick for was a time. A time in my life when I felt safe. All
the burdens I carried could be lifted off my shoulders by being held, loving
whispers in the dark, the calm of a beautiful sunset, playing tag with friends
on the cool grass, watching the stars on a summer’s evening, listening to the
falling snow cover everything in a peaceful white. That golden moment when I
was about ten or eleven – old enough to take care of myself, but not yet entirely
responsible for anyone or anything else. That point in my life when parents were
trusted to take care of everything, right before the preteen realization that
they were fallible people that shatters the childhood worldview. That seemingly
long, too short moment, of young love, while in the arms of the man I had
chosen, the depth of our feelings for each other gave the knowledge that no
matter what the future held, we were strong enough and everything would be all
right because we would always be this loved, safe, and cared for. When joy was
simple and happiness uncomplicated. I so desperately need to go back to those
moments, sometimes.
But it’s a
struggle. I’ve lived. More than a half-century of love, laughter, pain, and
trials stamped on my mind, heart, and spirit no longer allow for simple, straightforward
emotions. I still watch the sunset, enjoying the colors as they fade through
each other and into the dark. But I remember that I am also grateful for the
technology that allowed me to keep my sight for the last four decades. I watch my
husband sleep, thinking of the moments when he still touches my face, holds my
hand, wraps his functioning arm around me – those times are more precious than
my newlywed self could possibly imagine. I know how much it costs him in pain
to express his love with small intimacies most take for granted. I watch my
grandchildren giggle, run, grow, struggle, fuss, and learn, and I remember
being their age. I miss the simplicity and excitement of the newness of each
new day of childhood, but I worry for them. Dangers lurk ahead, and though I
will warn them, I know sometimes all I will be able to do is listen as they cry
and pick up the pieces of what they thought they knew.
Still…
As much as I yearn
simpler times, I would not trade what I know, who I am now, or what I might yet
become for the world. There is a depth of understanding, of compassion, of joy,
that can only be experienced because of sorrow, pain, and anguish. I just have
to remember that sometimes.
