For the next few weeks, while I’m betwixt and between places to live, I am back at my parents house. Today was like 1983 in an alternate reality. My hair in pigtails, my stuff all packed, suitcases and trunks waiting to be stuffed into a car adeptly so everything fits. As I cleaned my sublet (scrubbing the sinks, mopping the floors, wiping down the shelves) it was highly reminiscent of summer camp. A dear friend helped me through the chores that seemed to be the hallmark of the end of summer years ago, chatting about idle things in between taking time to stand in the direct blast of the air conditioner. I kept giggling remembering the last day of camp where everyone’s running around creaky wooden cabins trying to find all their belongings and clean the little spartan oak box that had served as shelter for the previous few weeks.

But this go-round, instead of my parents pulling up in the 1980 Pontiac Parisienne wood-paneled station wagon eager to greet me and meet my fellow campers, I drove myself home. I said goodbye to my friend with a gigantic bear hug, and watched her walk in the direction of her house, disappearing through the woods, the bamboo (poshly displayed openly in a peanut butter tub filled with water) I gave her in hand. There were no “see you next summers” or secret handshakes or scribbling down of addresses like in 1983. Just a hug, a sigh and driving away.

Saturday I had the chance to go craft at a fellow knitters house, someone who is also in a period of transition, and has also returned home to where she grew up temporarily. I was enthralled by all the books everywhere in this lovely rural house of her father’s that was much like a museum of cool things instead of my parents house which is well, a bit hermetic. There are few things more ridiculous than playing U2 songs from an official songbook (and singing along) underneath the portrait of a sailor in the middle of the country in a house owned by an Irishman. It, too, reminded me of 1983, although I stopped dreaming about Larry Mullen, Jr., sometime around 1989.

So weighing all of my options, I am back where I grew up. Even though I am somewhat reluctant, here I am. Not because I want to look back, but because I am moving forward and need somewhere to stay in the interim. I haven’t looked for a job in this city since I was in high school, which is a bit frightening. I fear going to an interview and being questioned by someone from high school. But in order to move in the right direction, I know that sometimes the best course of action is to take a step back. So I have, and I’m thankful for the chance.

I’m taking this step in order to look at my own creative production in an environment that will force me to focus due to its temporality. I’m finally beginning to believe in what I’m doing, even though I’ve taken the (ultra mega) long way around to getting there. This current pit stop is one where I’ll have the breathing room in which to concentrate on concocting the best path to take next month, when hopefully I’ll be learning traditional textile techniques.

In Ways of Seeing, John Berger wrote, “the way we see things is affected by what we know or what we believe.” I hope to hold that sentiment close to my heart the next few weeks, because it stands as a reminder that beauty begets beauty. And that we are our art, whether we like it or not. It may help to alleviate estrangement, anger and/or confusion, but is no less a result of the process that is going on in our heads. We are inextricably linked to what we produce, if only for the fact that we choose to produce things one way and not another.

It is this connection between self and creation that inspires me to do more, think more, question more, love more and trust more. Tritely, even though I see some definite wrong turns in the paths I’ve chosen, I can’t help but believe that they all were picked and trod for a reason. And the way I see it, if I don’t keep creating, I’ll never get to fully understand the reasons why.

Should you find yourself in a similar position, I recommend listening to Death Cab for Cutie, that is if you don’t have an organ on hand…