AUG 2024 - Unexpected Arrival

I moved from a community of people living in mostly small cottages, nestled among large trees with green leaves and flowering bushes, amid grass and perennials—a landscape of colors and smells, the sight and sounds of colorful birds chirping—to a triangle house set apart from nearby houses by juniper and piñon trees. No landscaping to speak of. Muted tones of brown. No neighbors offering me welcome. No neighborhood. No job. I was 65, living by myself. The last time I’d moved I was 28 with a husband and son. I loved the house I’d bought so spontaneously. I did not feel at home.

Despite living less than a mile and a half from the Plaza, I had to ask three people where it was before I found it. I’m not good with maps so figuring out where different neighborhoods were meant a lot of walking and exploring and getting turned around if not lost. I was used to living in a small community where I knew and was known by many people. Now I knew hardly anyone. Here the air was dry, the landscape earth tones, none of the humidity and greenery I was used to. By moving to New Mexico, I stopped being a professor. Now who was I? Did I need an answer? Why couldn’t I just be? See what opportunities I could create or find?

A few weeks later, my son called. “You’re not a professor anymore so you need a new business card. Tell me what you want to put on it and I’ll make you one.”

My thoughts were focused on the house—the repairs needing to be done, finding doctors and dentists, a landscaper, contractors, a vet . . . I hadn’t had time to think about what kind of new life I’d make for myself, yet without thinking, I answered quickly. “Storymaker,” then laughed. So much for my identity crisis. One problem solved.

I had a house I loved, a new identity, a cat that was thriving. I was writing each day, working to finish two novels and a nonfiction book I’d begun while still a professor. I was enjoying working on the weaving that was on the loom when I moved. I happily visited the many museums so close to where I lived. Still, I felt like a visitor.

I found local hiking trails and after acclimatizing to the altitude, dryness, and steep ups and downs, I began hiking regularly, by myself because I didn’t know anyone who hiked. I joined a local tennis club to find people with whom to play. I quickly realized the players were there for tennis, not to make friends.

I felt good about my new life, free of the constraints imposed by people who’d known me for 37 years. I could be who I was, rather than who I’d been. And yet, something undefinable was missing. I didn’t regret leaving the university, the community where I lived, or moving. The more I thought about it, the more puzzled I was. What was it? With everything going so well, what could possibly be missing?

I talked with a friend who suggested I might be expecting too much too soon, that it took time to acclimate to a new life, to meet people, to feel comfortable inside myself given the huge transition I was experiencing. I knew she was right, and yet . . .

I like walking and Santa Fe is a good town to walk in. Occasionally people nodded to me as I passed, some smiled, a few times there were words of welcome when we exchanged hellos. All this felt good but I continued to feel like the stranger I was. I wondered what it would take to feel that I belonged. 

One day, while walking in the railyard area, I saw a sign: El Museo Cultural. Curious about what kind of museum it might be, I walked in. A woman came toward me, holding out her arms. Smiling, she gently held my hands and said, “You have come home.”

Magically. Mystically. The missing piece dissolved. I was home. 

What do you need to feel you are home?

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August 2024 Monthly Stories