Finding My Way Home
I went to the library with the name of a book. Poked around in the sections and at the front desk, said to a very friendly looking woman, “I’m practicing admitting embarrassing things.” She urged me, kindly, to continue. “It’s been awhile since (no, am not, have never been Catholic but this surely was a confession) I’ve looked up a book, and I’m not certain I remember how to do it.” She smiled. “I can do it for you, here, or we can go over there and I’ll show you how to do it. Your choice.” Oh, the empowerment of choice! I was seven, in an instant, and told her next time she might teach me. She smiled again, and finally found the book but had to special order it. I memorized her face and thanked her. In my youth, I had a poster with the E.M. Forster quote, “Only Connect!” but I was totally disconnected. From myself (most of my feelings went into cold storage), from my family, even my friends just got veneer. The real, rarely used, became like tarnished silver, hidden, ugly, unacceptable, embarrassing.
This woman, a stranger, met me where I am and said, “It’s ok not to know. I’m not judging you as stupid.” All these years later, I am always deeply grateful for such kindness. Though I understand that I deserve it, have always completely deserved it, there’s a part of me that seems to have trouble believing it. My brain isn’t always a good friend. Sometimes it takes a left and leaves me feeling slightly ridiculous. Like I should explain or defend, or justify, but I can’t find the words. I go comatose, like the chilly bees (oh, that’s why I need to warm them. It’s empathic!) Keep me warm, so I can fly home. Warm, not quite so alone, I can make my way, feel my way, learn my way home.
LBM 10/30/2019
