Turns Out, I Was Here All Along
I'm home.
Back in Arizona with my hubby, Chica, my own bed, and all the familiar pieces of my life around me.
But I brought something home from Colorado that didn't fit in my suitcase.
Me.
For months, I've wondered when I would feel like myself again.
Not necessarily the person I was before surgery. I'm beginning to understand that she's probably changed a little.
But me.
The woman who teaches and laughs too loudly. The woman who plays music in her classes because creating art should be fun. The woman who walks through the world noticing feathers and funny-shaped rocks. The woman who loves being with people, loves an adventure, and has a really hard time sitting still.
Where did she go?
Somewhere in Colorado, I think I finally found the answer.
She didn't go anywhere.
She was still here.
She just needed some room to come back out.
I Wasn't Sure I Could Do This
I went to Colorado to teach a lecture and workshop, but I'll admit something: I was nervous.
Really nervous.
This year has taken a lot out of me physically and emotionally. My hip replacement turned into an infection, another surgery, months of antibiotics, anemia, iron infusions, fatigue, brain fog, anxiety, and a body that sometimes seems to make up the rules as it goes along.
Just two days before flying to Colorado, I had my second iron infusion. My first one had knocked me flat for several days, so I wasn't exactly brimming with confidence about getting on an airplane and heading off to teach.
But the second infusion went beautifully.
And off I went.
And Then Something Happened
Monday morning, I stood in front of about 75 women at the Monarch Quilters in Salida.
I had been worried about the brain fog.
Would I remember what I wanted to say?
Would I have enough energy?
Could I still do this?
Then I started talking.
And there I was.
We laughed. We talked about fiber art. I shared my work and the stories behind it. They were engaged, curious, and wonderful.
The next day, I taught Freaky Fiber Fun in Buena Vista.
I pulled out my little iPad and speaker and started playing music.
Apparently, their instructors don't normally do that.
Well...
No Rules, Just Art®, people.
Before long, women were singing and dancing in their chairs while they created.
And I remember thinking:
Oh. There you are.
Maybe Healing Looks Like This
After teaching, I headed back toward Denver to spend time with my son Jason and my daughter-in-law, Shalifa.
And that's when something else began happening.
I slowed down.
Not because somebody told me to.
Not because my body completely shut me down.
I just...slowed down.
We walked.
And walked.
And walked some more.
More than two miles several mornings. Nearly three miles around Sloan Lake one morning.
There were hills. There were trails. There were moments when I could feel my muscles working harder than they have in months.
And here's the incredible part:
My muscles hurt. My hip didn't.
Do you have any idea how good it feels to write that sentence?
The Little Things Started Showing Up
Maybe it's because I wasn't rushing.
Maybe it's because I finally had enough quiet to notice.
But little treasures kept appearing.
A magpie feather.
A heart-shaped rock.
A mallard feather.
Canadian goose feathers.
Morning walks with people I love.
Three glorious hours laughing with two friends from my IBM/Lotus days whom I rarely get to see—but when we are together, it's as though no time has passed.
Rib-eye steaks made by my son.
Fajitas and chicken wings made by my daughter-in-law.
A farmers market.
Dark chocolate.
Chicken shawarma and naan.
The best chai tea I've ever had.
And naps.
Yes.
Naps.
And for once, I didn't feel guilty about them.
Maybe That's What I've Been Missing
For much of this year, healing has felt like a job.
Appointments.
Medications.
Antibiotics.
Physical therapy.
Bloodwork.
Infusions.
Doctors.
More doctors.
And constantly evaluating myself.
How much does it hurt today?
How tired am I?
What's my heart rate?
Is this normal?
Should I be worried?
Am I doing too much?
Am I doing enough?
Even healing can become exhausting when you're constantly measuring it.
But in Colorado, I stopped measuring quite so much.
I lived.
I taught.
I laughed.
I walked.
I ate.
I talked.
I rested.
I picked up feathers.
I spent time with people I love.
And somewhere in the middle of all of that, something familiar started showing up.
Me.
Turns Out, I Was Here All Along
On one of my last evenings in Colorado, I sat in my son's home writing while his homemade chicken-and-rice soup cooked in the kitchen.
Oh, could I smell it.
Everyone was tired after another full day, and for once there was nowhere I needed to be.
Nothing I needed to accomplish.
Nothing I needed to prove.
I remember sitting there and realizing that it was probably the most peaceful, relaxing, stress-free stretch of time I'd had in a very long time.
And I don't think that was just Colorado.
It was Jason and Shalifa, too.
There is such a peacefulness about the two of them. A kindness. A warmth. A way they care for each other and the people around them that you can almost feel when you walk into their home.
I've watched my son rebuild his life after losing 23 years of it. I've watched him grow and change in ways I don't think I could have imagined when I stood there waiting for him to walk out those prison doors. And now, three years later, I got to simply be with the man he has become and the woman who shares this life with him.
And somewhere in those days together, I realized how much I needed what they had created there.
This past year has been filled with so much pain, fear, exhaustion, doctors, appointments, medications, and simply trying to get through the next thing that I didn't realize how much peace had been missing from my life.
Or how much I missed simply being surrounded by kindness, warmth, laughter, and love.
Jason and Shalifa didn't try to fix anything.
They didn't need to.
They just opened their home and their lives to me.
And somehow, they filled my soul.
And now I'm home.
Back to my life. Back to my husband. Back to Chica. Back to my studio, my art, my appointments, my responsibilities, and everything else waiting for me.
But I'm coming home a little differently than I left.
For months, I've wondered if I would ever feel like the old me again.
Now I'm not sure that's even the right question.
Because I'm not exactly the woman I was before all of this happened.
I've changed.
I've learned to listen to my body.
I've learned that resting doesn't mean I'm lazy.
I've learned that saying no doesn't mean I'm weak.
I've learned that sometimes the strongest thing I can do is stop.
But underneath everything that changed, the rest of me never disappeared.
The artist.
The teacher.
The slightly crazy woman who brings music to fiber-art class.
The wife.
The mom.
The friend.
The woman who gets ridiculously excited about finding a feather on the ground.
The woman who laughs.
The woman who loves life.
She was still there.
She just needed some room to come back out.
Maybe healing isn't always about becoming someone new.
Maybe sometimes it's simply making enough room for yourself to come back out.
Colorado gave me that room.
And maybe that's the real souvenir I'm bringing home.
Not the feathers.
Not the heart-shaped rock.
Not even the dark chocolate—although let's not get carried away. I'm definitely bringing THAT home. 😂
I'm bringing home the reminder that I'm still here.
I didn't have to find myself again.
Turns out, I was here all along. ❤️
This note is a message to my own soul…thank you for saying it out-loud, I all-to-often lose my way in the noise of “purpose” and forget to see the pure beauty of living all around me….Thank you for this
Powerful message. Brought me to tears. Thanks for sharing and continue your journey of healing!