Homecoming

When I moved to Austin, I had an intense intuition about the move. Something I had to find, someone I had to meet, places I needed to see. There was only one person I needed to meet. She had been waiting for me for quite some time. A strange shiver runs through my spine when the last 24 years of not knowing myself flash before my eyes. I extend a shaky hand for greeting while restless curiosity washes over me.

Questions rush in. Has your door always had a scratch right under the left windowpane? This spot of dirt looks like it’s freshly planted, what happened here? What’s your favorite room in the house, do you have one? Did you do this all yourself, or did you invite your neighbor over to help you? Is it easy for you to ask for help? How old is this wallpaper? Where did you get all these snow globes? Tell me what you’re holding onto that you’d like to get rid of. Do you want to sell it, repurpose it, or simply donate it?

A room made for crafting grabs my attention. A stained glass window faces the sunset holding space for light to flow in causing colors to dance on your walls. The energy of creation has an unmissable presence, more questions make themselves known. Who’s your muse? What’s their name? Do they visit often?

I never thought of myself as home, abusing my vessel all these years. Constantly rejecting my beautiful temple felt safe. Condemning it with certainty, as the scapegoat for my suffering. My body readily available to blame, yearning to be useful. Self-harm identified clearly as a survival strategy, a tool used to keep my bloodline in existence.

My homecoming didn’t come without resistance. Shortly before entering Austin city limits, I called my parents in a panic and asked if I had made a huge mistake. Their answer was basically “well, you’ll find out.” Everyone kept telling me, “You can always come home if it doesn’t work,”. It’s funny because even then, I knew I wouldn’t be back anytime soon. So, I never put any weight on what they said, my gut knew the assurance wasn’t for me.

My homecoming hasn’t been without its adjusting periods. I’ve contested it, pushed back, thrown my hands up in the air, stormed out of the house and slammed the door behind me. When the orange sun melts into the horizon over the hills I find my way back home. Once inside the safety of my own four walls, I lower to the ground, claim a child’s pose, and apologize for briefly abandoning it. It tells me it understands, no trace of judgement to be found. A hot cup of ginger tea waits for me, evaporating steam. Every sip feels gentle and calm with no expectations attached. Sometimes I forget to drink it all, and the soothing beverage harbors no resentment towards me.

I spend a lot of time in the garden. I’ve pulled weeds, tilled dirt, and established what I’d like to plant. Sometimes I change my mind about what I’m planting. Often, I get overambitious and remember that small progress is likely better than overambition. Which historically has led to complete and utter failure.

I’ve been taking hot baths with magnesium salt and occasionally bubbles. Sometimes I draw them much too hot, and I can’t stay in them long. I’m getting better at thinking about longevity. I happily observe different outcomes as I untangle the patterns that once kept me alive. Beliefs bubble to the surface, I greet them with compassion.

I’ve been laying my head down to rest when my body asks me to. Sometimes I still fall asleep on the couch with the TV on, infomercials penetrating my subconscious. I awake in the night transported back to my childhood home. When I wake though, I collect myself, snuggle back into my feather-filled duvet under the cold clean white sheets. A sigh escapes my lips. I welcome the peaceful feeling of comfort. Comforted not by anyone but myself.

The morning breaks. I wander into the kitchen, the unwashed dishes in the sink stare back at me. I begin bargaining, “Can’t you wait until tomorrow?”

“Well, I could,” one bowl responds.

Another pan says, “Or you could take 5 minutes and do us now,”

My homecoming happens in the kitchen. In the bedroom. In the bath. In the garden. In the craft room. I acknowledge each setting with gratitude. Graceful feet moving beneath me as I come home to myself in Texas.