The Dirt in My Soul

I went home—or as they say "down to the farm"—this weekend. I put in for a couple of days off from work so I could do so. First time I'd asked for a break, and I still got grief for it, but I was determined. The summer solstice is the best thing to celebrate, next to Christmas and Easter.

Friday night, then, after packing what felt like everything (and practically was everything since I live with just the essentials + my favorite books here) into Misha's backpack (not sure where mine is), I drove straight to the Markell's to dance the night away in a barn lit up with Christmas lights, stars and fireflies just outside. It was a little cold, and I only danced about half the dances, but still a perfect night catching up with old friends, making new ones, and getting swung 'til I was dizzy. While you're there, you really don't stop smiling. Even if you are sitting down you have to tap out the beat with your foot or your hand or your finger or something, and it puts a certain spark in your countenance, no matter how long the week or the year or life has been.

I drove around the hill to home and, after brushing my teeth and washing my feet, tumbled into bed a little after midnight, trying not to think, letting my mind stay dizzy and succumb to sleep. I did, and quickly, but dawn also came quickly. I ate oatmeal and puttered around the house. From a year of not living there, it's quite overgrown. The forest feels closer to the house than ever, despite the years and years we spent pushing it back. Give it another two years, and I think it might swallow our house up altogether. Someone will buy it before then, though... I hope (and pray). It really, really needs to sell. Buying a new place is contingent on it selling, and renting like we are now is tricky business. But there's no going back. It's too late for that. We really, really, had to go. It was time.

Saturday morning, it was also time for me to drive a little farther south and visit my grandmother. It was the part of the weekend I'd been dreading, that I was hiding from as I danced. Yet, despite not wanting to go, I fiercely needed to. So I went to the assisted living home, snuggled in the hills, surrounded by flowers and sunshine. A clutch of old women sat in comfy chairs just inside the front entrance, looking sunshiny themselves, if not a bit disoriented. There was no one at the front desk, so I, too, looked disoriented. I peeked in the main room, then wandered a ways down a hall until two other women who were visiting asked me if they could help me find someone. They must come frequently. That, and it's a quite small place. I told them my grandma's name and one of them immediately knew. I backtracked to one of the first rooms in the hall and walked in without hesitating.

It went okay. I got to say the important things, and though she didn't respond I know she heard and saw. I'm sure that the her, the one that's beneath the morphine and pain and demons, understood in some way.

On the way home, I stopped at the farmer's stand. I'd noticed a sign for strawberries on the way there. I checked my eyes in the the rearview mirror to make sure they weren't red before hopping out of the car. A Troy boy—spent so many years being told to avoid them—sold them to me for 2.50 and a smile, and I called it good. They were pretty little gems. I spent the rest of the drive home thinking how grace is free. I'd call that good too.

At home again, I made pie. Apple pie. The strawberries were just to eat. Though, Andrew made a strawberry rhubarb pie. We were, after all, going to pie. The Perry's and Alex joined us that evening, and we all drove over together. It's a summer solstice celebration that's gone on for around 40 years a few miles from our lane. There's music, and volleyball, and camping, and kegs, and corn hole, and a bonfire, and pie all the time but especially midnight pie. I guess the whole thing is loosely associated with the word "hippie" but you basically just go with it, enjoy it and talk to people if you want, or don't if you don't want to.

We had a rather grand time into the wee hours of the morning. Though I spent the last couple just staring into the fire thinking about my grandmother and why we leave places.

Sunday I went to church and without coffee (if I'd woken up earlier I'd have had time to get coffee—see my dilemma?) still managed to teach my kid's ministry class.

All in all, it was a very real weekend. So many parts of it were good, but it was also hard. I kept thinking of my grandma and life and death.

It helped that the hardness took place in the comfort of the familiar. For as much as I loathe to admit that my identity is wrapped up in a particular place, it's still true. It is frustratingly true. That particular place is so me, it's scary. Yet, why shouldn't it be me? After all, I am it. I was raised there. The water from our well, the energy from grains and vegetables and fruits that grew in our fields and forests, formed me. The matter of my body is literally made from the matter of that earth. The dirt in my soul is Appalachian Pennsylvania mountain dirt. In a very material sense, it defines me. Shapes my thoughts and preferences and lifestyle in more ways than one.

That's why moving was initially so hard. I had to give up an earthly identity...and actually replace it with Jesus. Crazy, right, that my relationship with God would extend to that area of my life? It wasn't drugs, sex, cars, clothing, or people that I was misplacing my identity in. It was my homeland.

Granted, even though I "gave it up" it's still just as much a part of me. That's what's frustrating. Even though I presently care less where I live because everywhere is beautiful and my preferences one way or another or my way of expressing my personality just don't matter to me 'cause I'm so over all that, it was still a pleasant feeling to have who I am fit so perfectly in my context on a molecular level. And feel...comfortable.

And then there's Jesus. I'm not sure what that means in the specifics of school and family and friends and future, but I know there are crosses to carry and comfort on a molecular or relational level is not necessarily the aim. Of course, along with crosses, there are promised peaceful rivers to sleep by. I do wonder what lands I'll carry crosses through and where those rivers will be.