Be at home.
In this body.
In this home, even though I sometimes want to do a complete start-over somewhere else.
I live here now. So be at home.
In the midst of this scruffy, strange high desert experiment of a micro-farm
Anxiety and anger. Loneliness. Being holiday-frazzled. Fear. These are genetic remnants flowing through me. From countless ancestors. From life circumstances pelting this body, this mind. I’d have thought as an anthropologist I could look at this part of myself and shrug it off. It’s nature. I can’t. Not so easily.
I can change how I react or respond. In fact that’s it. React or respond. React to a lion chasing me and hurray for the body’s reactions. Respond to economic stresses. This is what they say, allostasis or adjusting to the newest normal is part of what we are; it’s established in our DNA and our neurons (Sapolsky, 2004). That’s reassuring. When the storm is past, I can return home. Theoretically that’s where the peace is. The ease. The calm. The healing.
My previous external world has been shattered. But, again, I know I keep saying it, the storm has passed.
My internal world is something else. It was shattered into thousands of fragments, some of them very strange. Everything wobbled. Many things came crashing down. Some things will not be rebuilt. Ever.
I’m still here. After the changes and in the midst of surveying the wreckage, I can look at what remains. Strengthen what remains is something I used to hear. Maybe that applies to where I am right now. Same words, different context. I’m still here, surveying the wreckage, looking to strengthen what remains.
I am at home. My body is at home. My mind. My work. My friends and family. Everything changes. Everything will change. I am at home. Again. And again.
Sapolsky, Robert M. (2004). (3rd ed.). Why zebras don’t get ulcers. New York: Henry Holt and Company.