Four years have passed since my first post. Four years, and the arrival of two more children, and, in reference to said first post, the shedding of several layers of skin. No, I'm not a snake, and with six kids have barely enough time to brush my teeth, much less exfoliate. I'm just... stretching, sighing, becoming the person who actually lives in my skin.
I've been thinking about this whole "becoming" idea. I think I always used to think of life in terms of arrivals. I watched other people, going about their days and lives and imagined them neatly arrived and unpacking--happy with their flight, destination, the outfits they picked out. I seemed to never feel that way.
For me, I had packed too new of shoes, ones that rubbed tender blisters, and sported a fanny pack that signaled I was a)outdated and b)definitely a tourist. I longed for a place to "move into". You know, some place comfy and perfect, maybe with dinner already simmering on the stove.
To "arrive" at this quilt-wrapped, perfectly-packed place, I employed this backward practice of erasing. I glanced over one shoulder to see where I ought to be, and then rub, rub, rubbed this giant pink eraser over the story lines of my life I'd crafted, imagining them to be too full of mistakes and mismatched socks to possibly be the ones I needed to get me where I thought I wanted to be.
The problem, other than GIGANTIC piles of eraser bits (I remember this boy in second grade who saved his, neatly swept into the wooden groove at the front of his desk), was that a)leaden memories still taunted from the stubborn paper fibers and b)all that I had smudged out was the good stuff--evidence of growth, grace, answered prayers. And the truth is, I started to miss people. Because I was so worried about where I thought I should be, and where I shouldn't have been that I was letting these most beautiful people and moments just... rub away.
When I was little, maybe five or six, my parents had taken me to my first accordian contest, and predawn, I awoke to my mom frantically banging all of our shoes on the floor. She didn't tell me at the time, but I found out years later that the big, old beautiful hotel also hosted big, old beautiful cockroaches, and Mom had discovered one and preferred not to bring home souvenirs. So I'm shaking out my bags. I might uncover some roaches. (I hope not, and if I do they'll just have to leave.) What I'm really hoping for are dusty, quirky souvenirs, that with a little love will look just right on the mantle, despite my neglect.
And you know what? I've realized my Trip Tik doesn't have a destination marked. Just some really great points of interest that I'd like to check out.