I am back in Utah.
Back to the beginning of when I started to really write.
It feels strange.
I think it’s funny how I kept feeling like everything was different–but it’s not Utah that’s different–it’s me who has changed.
Going back to the ocean was good for me.
I grew up on the coast, and it was good to go to my roots–the sea is in my blood–and the sun and the salt and the water healed my body and spirit in ways the mountains could not. As I sat on the beach and looked out at forever one night, watching the moon and the stars and all eternity seemed within my grasp, I felt connected to them in a way that is inexplicable.
I felt my whole being melting into all of it and for a moment the veil between time and no time was thin and I felt Heaven.
I miss that.
I realize, coming back, that Florida taught me to play again. I miss my fireworks, let me tell you.
I used to cry during Wishes. And Illuminations–especially at Christmas. You’d have to have a heart of stone not to be moved by “Let There Be Peace On Earth” accompanied by literally breath taking pyrotechnics.
I never was very moved by Fantasmic.
Pocahontas? I don’t get it. Why not Peter Pan and Neverland?
But, oh, how I look back and think how very lucky I was to learn to walk in a place where everyone treated even me like a beautiful princess.
I miss that, too.
But, I have it with me. All those experiences are now part of my Misty-ness. And I walk around with a slightly befuddled smile on my face because the love and the happiness and the, well, magic–it’s inside of me, and I can’t help myself.
Not even complaining about the SMeE. (Well, not yet, anyway.)
No, it hasn’t shaken the pixie dust off yet.
Maybe I just found Joy and I can handle her being with me without crying when I feel her near.
I don’t know.
I had some news the other day. We took Noah to see his old pediatrician who managed all the testing and everything before. I think before he was just trusting that I felt something was off, even though he couldn’t see it.
But, this time, it was different. This time, he said,
Yes, something is wrong.
And it was hard for me. I felt that same familiar shortness of breath. The feeling that the room was closing in. My mouth got dry and I don’t know why it bothered me so much. I have known for awhile that something was off.
But, I could always say it was just me. Just me being an overworried mom.
But, when he said it, it seemed more real.
And I just wanted to get out of there as soon as possible.
But, even with all of that, I feel peace and calm and joy.
Because I know I am in the hands of the living God and so is Noah. And so are you. And it is a gloriously terrifying thing to be in His hands, because it will always, always be an adventure.
So I am back to the beginning, and the adventure has begun.
We are building a home, we are helping Noah, and we are stumbling along trying to be a beautiful family, although I believe having only two bathrooms may strain sibling relations until they work something out–which may take legal arbitration.
I am back to the beginning but I am older and maybe wiser.
Maybe just more tired.
Maybe just more aware of pain and suffering and it makes me feel beauty more deeply and I look at the sun and it smiles at me, and the stars laugh and I know that even through pain, there is a reason to brim with overflowing gratitude at the miracle that is life.
The messy, messy miracle. The miracle that leaves tear stains down my cheeks sometimes. The miracle that brings me back to the beginning and makes everything different and new and exciting and scary and amazing.
We are healed of a suffering only by experiencing it to the full.
Maybe it is different because I am seeing my life, not through my eyes alone, but through the eyes of others–through the eyes of so many others I have met because I could not walk and could not do what I used to do.
Sitting in waiting rooms looking at other people waiting–I began to ask God to let me see through their eyes. To never forget what it feels like to struggle to stand or step or move or speak or hear or see or breathe.
The only true voyage of discovery, the only fountain of Eternal Youth, would be not to visit strange lands but to possess other eyes, to behold the universe through the eyes of another, of a hundred others, to behold the hundred universes that each of them beholds, that each of them is. –Marcel Proust
Maybe it is different because the ocean got back into me and the sound of the waves echoes in my heart and turns my thoughts constantly to He who rules the stormy seas and then calms them. I can’t help but think of Him, hearing the roar of the water beating against the sand in an eternal symphony of beautiful, simple majesty.
I am finally home.
And it’s not a place. It is me. I am home.
It is in me. All the things that make me feel like I can breathe deep and wear my pajamas and not put on make up and I will be loved anyway.
All along, it was in me–I was always home, I just didn’t know it.