Ditto

Does anyone remember the days of the ditto? I can still smell and feel the thick bendy pages marked with blue/lavender ink that Mrs. Rudolph handed out to us in 1st grade for our language arts class. These dittos were always a little blurry, but we could read them and they seemed a good idea for the likes of fidgety pupils who always seemed to ground themselves when holding onto something. They were pre- fax, maybe even pre-photocopier and definitely pre-powerpoint. I don't think anyone ever exclaimed! anything about their innovation, or at least not when I was around, but there was always a comforting smell of new and old that wafted from these somehow copied pages. You could tell that a human was involved in their making and, while you may not fully understand how they were actually made, you knew that they saved the teacher time as Marina Nichetta handed them out to your classroom.

There is something in the return to our old stomping ground for a week that feels reminiscent of the ditto. There is no "home" or "original" to return to, but the generosity and hospitality of friends that make the homecoming (the ditto never looks like the original). The familiar and the blurred parts of our street, the smells and sounds of new and old- the regular symphony of leaf blowers, now raised and freshly painted houses, night herons and their forever returning nests that mark themselves with piles of bird poop splashed below in the same spot each summer. And then there is the practical- getting a haircut from my hair stylist of 12 years, stopping for a cup of coffee from my used-to-be morning ritual, driving up and down I-95 appreciating its efficiency and ease (without traffic). This revisiting is comforting and also disquieting.

There's a clear difference between the original and the copy- an echo of what once was, the reliable details, mixed with a new harmony that ripples out from an awareness that I've (we've) chosen different. There is the realization that this place that we called "home" is no longer a safety net in the event that our epic move fails. It's as if our matryoshka doll molds broke when we left priming us to expand, contract and shed what was. Like one of my spirit animals, my carapace is simultaneously growing as I figure out the lay of the land in new territory and sheltering what remains as my body adapts to meet the new climate while remembering the old.

Touching ground with two of my children in the mix, I embraced my sisters, mother, friends and before barristas and savored the nostalgia and gratitude as it filled my tank. Knowing that this would not be home again, but that we would always return, lessened my doubt and strengthened my conviction that this new path will continue to unfold as I make it. Like we used to divide the hostas in our backyard when space grew tight, our roots and crowns have separated from Connecticut soil and still remain intact as we root on The Rock. But, like the ditto, the fax, the photocopy or the pdf, without them we might not see the nuances of our shifting from the original. The handed out copies are done, but maybe not perfect. (I used to love the slanted hand-written notes I'd find on the margins or the coffee stains that looked like purple cobwebs. Yes, Mrs. Rudolph had made her copies hastily, but that's what made her more human, more intriguing, more lovable.)

In the returning and going back there's this chance to appreciate the not perfect. These bumps and straight aways are what make a life, the smudges and the snafus that show up when we try to recreate or expect the same result. I believe it is in the revisiting that we have more capability to see our humanness, to understand and appreciate that we are always becoming. Some don't need to move or relocate to notice their evolution but I am learning that I do. My curious, restless and somewhat wanderlust spirit isn't something to feel bad about but something that drives me to keep stretching my comfort zone. And the validation, or self realization, that comes with understanding my choices and braving forward with a bit more self compassion really makes "home" a state of mind, no matter where I am (just like the turtle).