Leaving No-Man's Land

When we first moved to this god-forsaken wasteland (my term of endearment for this corner of the prairie that we inhabit) I couldn't leave fast enough. I hated it. So much of nothing. So much quiet. It was winter, which didn't help. We were 20 miles from the nearest "big town" of 1100 people. We were 20 miles from my son's school. We were one hour from any city of any decent size, and at least 60 miles from the nearest marker of civilization: A Starbucks.There was no where to go, and nothing to do. When I asked a neighbor where they went when they wanted to go out to eat, she waited for a long time before answering, and finally shrugged and said, "There's the gas station." I wanted to throw up.

We didn't know anyone. We moved to a street on which house after house was populated by the same family that belongs to a religious cult that mandates their people don't mix with outsiders. Their girls didn't want to babysit, their kids were skeptical of playing with our kids. Noone and nothing in sight except for bare trees and empty fields. I'd stare at that field for long periods of time, searching for some sign of life. Occasionally a deer would wander into sight, and I'd watch it for as long as I could. The neighbors would drive through the lane at the back of our yard and stare into our house like we were zoo animals. I had no tolerance for them, these people of a different species who lived and spoke a different language than we did. They did strange things like knocking on our door to tell us the trashman wasn't coming for two more days (meaning we needed to bring our garbage bags back to the side of the house until that day), building a brand new house next to the town recycling dump, assuming we'd noticed when someone had trimmed a tree, burning rubber tires in their back yard and anything else that would reduce in flame, laughing and saying they didn't believe in global warming, saying "I don't care" when we asked how much they charged for mowing lawns, not minding if their kids were in good schools or extracurricular activities, driving two hours to a dentist appointment, never asking why there was a siren that sounded in town every day at 12pm, 6pm, and 10pm, looking in our windows to wave hello, stopping in conversation to stare or waiting for a while to answer after you'd said something to them, and saying that someone had "just" moved to town when they'd moved in 6 months previous! A strange breed, these people. I felt out of place, like I'd moved to a different country. Our words were the same, but our meanings weren't. Even our body language was different. I wanted out. I nearly went crazy that first winter. Every night I waited to see if my partner would make the treacherous one-hour drive back from the city on slick roads. No wonder I tore into our house with a vengeance and plans to renovate....well, everything.

Summer came and it was much more pleasant. Our son joined a baseball team. I spent time outdoors and almost recovered from my months of cabin fever. Things were starting to look up. All the alone time was, if anything, good for our own family unit and for space and bonding time.

Then winter came again. The winters are hard here. I was emotionally exhausted from the upheavals and the constant moving we'd experienced in the past 6 years, and refused to branch out, to make friends, to connect myself to this place that I really despised and the people that I couldn't fathom. Two years passed like that. The people slowly started to grow on me. Although the place didn't grow on me, I got used to the quiet, the pace, the space. Our son started preschool and I started seeing faces on a regular basis. Finally this past fall we decided to take a big step and to attend a church in town. There we found a surprisingly diverse group of big-hearted people united in purpose and spirit. We made friends and started to get involved. For the first time, I went to coffee at someone's house. I should have done it sooner.

Now it's summer again, and we're preparing to leave. It's a move we've been planning since before we came here. We're nearly two babies and a lot of family time richer. The renovations still aren't finished. Our lives are still crazy enough to make the neighbor's heads spin. We're still the city people who planted ourselves in the middle of the country, but in the end it's made us stronger. I've learned things about people - even those I don't understand. I've learned to accept the fact that many people go out of their way to do kind things for no other reason than to be kind. I've learned that there is something to be envied in the extreme simplicity some of these people cling to like a lifeline. I've learned that this dreaded space is actually a peaceful bubble that is one of the keys to keeping our family united.

Driving to school yesterday I realized with some surprised that if I went into labor, I have several people I could call to keep my kids, who would do it willingly and without a second thought. Friends. Genuine people. My son has found a niche, developed friendships. We struggled to find that in the city, where we're moving to. So I'm feeling nostalgic about this place, this god-forsaken wasteland that has turned out to be not so wasted after all.

It's a good move. We're looking forward to it. Our quality of life and our opportunities will be much greater there. Establishing ourselves will take time. But this time I'm moving forward, keeping my heart open to new places and people. I know I will find good there.

Talk of Peace

This past week me and my two youngest children took a road trip to the midwest to take part in my cousins's wedding and my grandma's funeral. While surrounded by family members on every side it's not always easy to get the chance for private, personal conversation. Except for with one particular aunt who has a knack for asking the questions that others avoid, and easily delving into deep and psychoanalytical conversations. I always liked her for that and when I was younger I liked to hang around her in hopes that I could take part in a conversation about things that actually mattered, rather than spend hours at exhausting small-talk.

However, a few years ago when I came out I found myself hoping against hope she wouldn't call. She herself had been married to a man who came out gay. He turned out to be a truly horrible person who left a wake of destruction and pain as he passed through her and their children's lives. When the phone rang and I finally did hear her voice on the other end of the phone, it didn't take long for me to realize that she wasn't calling about me, but she was calling about her. She was telling me how angry she was, how much pain she was in, how devastated her children still were from the pain their father had inflicted on them.... There was nothing I could say to soothe her wounds. When I told her I was finally at peace, her honey-sweet voice didn't match her words: "I don't give a damn." And I still knew it wasn't about me.

That was the last probing conversation I'd had with her before this weekend. I don't know what has changed in the past three years for her, but it quickly became obvious that she'd experienced a sort of forgiveness, that she'd let go of her anger, and that she'd even come to a point of reconciliation. When she quickly began asking the personal and probing questions, there was nothing in her tone or her manner that sent up red flags. What I found there was instead understanding, compassion, a heart-felt desire for wholeness for me, for herself, for anyone on either side of this situation that we have in common. What started as a simple chat about family dynamics turned into a five-hour long discussion that lasted until 2 in the morning. We asked questions, we exchanged viewpoints and experiences, we shared our hearts without the slightest bit of defensiveness or judgmentalism. It was an amazing time of healing and bonding for both of us. It felt like one of those things that was meant to be.

I'm so thankful for the blessing of her in my life.

My Grandma.

There is a quiet farm in Indiana, where the cool green grass is pushing up from the life-giving earth, and the birds are filling the air with their songs. There, in a long-loved house surrounded by corn fields and sunny skies lies a tiny, delicate old woman, breathing......just breathing. My Grandma. She has returned home to die. It was here she built a house and home with Grandpa. Two quiet, simple farmers with shining eyes, radiant smiles, and hearts bigger than could be contained by the land they nurtured like a baby.

Here she watched her five children leave home and marry. Here she held her grandbabies and watched as they grew and played together, blew out hundreds of birthday candles, uttered prayers of thanksgiving at harvest time and squealed with delight on Christmas morning. Here she taught us not just through words, but through her actions, about life, love, faith, and how to pour heart and soul into the people around you and make the world brighter where you stand. Here she laughed, worked, played, sang, prayed... Here she watched the ebb and flow of life - here she returned, alone, when Grandpa went before her to the other side.

Her teenage love, her life partner, her Sweetheart. After more than 40 years of marriage, when Grandpa drew his last breath, Grandma said "There goes one of God's greatest creations." I'm sure Grandpa gave an adoring chuckle when he heard that, and if he'd been able to, he would have reminded her that he was only 1/2 - that without her he could never have been the complete person that he'd been.

To me, Grandma was what grandmas should be - always round, rosy, fully of love and laughter. She was always scurrying here and there, and forever looking for some misplaced paper. Grandma's house was summer fun, family togetherness, Christmas magic, and vegetable soup. She taught me how to shuck corn, how to pick green beans, how to pull up pantyhose, about God, the joys of the treadmill, and that every girl in the world looks more beautiful with Shirley Temple curls. Somehow with a love, sweetness, faith, and a simplicity that were almost childlike she helped equip two generations of her family for adulthood.

And so now, the other half of one of God's greatest creations lies, just breathing, surrounded by her children. They hold her hand and quietly sing her the songs of her heart - the songs of faith she's sung since childhood. In grief, they wait for her to leave them. Unseen are the ones who have gone before - her Sweetheart, her oldest daughter. In joy, they wait for her to join them.

And so, Goodbye, sweet Grandma. You will be missed, loved and never forgotten.

XOXO

A place.

I need a place.

A place where some of my most personal thoughts can put up their feet and feel at home. A place where I can delve into sensitive subjects and can take a honest look at myself and my world without causing a stir. A place to get it all out on the page in that ongoing quest for clarity.

I have a blog that I use to track my family's comings and goings, the things that are happening in our lives, the cute things that my kids say and do. Sometimes I'll put my deeper musings on that blog. But the stuff that is really close to home, the stuff that I want to hash out without backlash....that's the stuff I need a place for. No bells and whistles, no ruffles.....just thoughts.

This is that place.