When someone tells you that they’re a therapist, there’s this momentary flash where the thought goes through your mind: “This person must really have his/her shit together.” So, I often find myself wondering if I’m going to appear to be that person. Not that I actually want to appear that way, but it seems a lot better than the one where you think: “This person should NOT be a therapist.” Luckily, having your shit completely together isn’t a requirement for this vocation. I say luckily, but I think I really mean, thank God.
*****
There’s a stack of boxes in my bedroom that has not moved since I placed them there 3.5 months ago. It’s been almost 4 months since we moved into this house, and there they remain. Have I had time to unpack them? Sure. Are there things in those boxes that would be useful if they were unpacked? Yup. Could we theoretically keep those items tucked neatly away in the boxes, leave them in their stacks, and get on with our new lives here in Missouri? Certainly. In fact, that’s what I think I’d prefer to do if I were pressed for an answer. I clearly lack the motivation to unpack those floor fixtures, but it’s not because I’m lazy or tired (though I’m entirely guilty of both). It’s because I’m afraid to make this home, Home.
*****
There’s a stack of boxes in the corner of my soul that has been collecting dust for years. Have I had time to unpack them? Sure. Are there things in those boxes that would be useful if they were unpacked? Yup. Could I theoretically keep those items tucked away neatly in those boxes, leave them in a stack, and get on with my life? Certainly.
But I want to be at Home in my own body, in my own being, so unpack them I must.
What exactly is in those boxes? Memories. Hurts. Buried pieces of my identity. A voice that is much louder than the one I allow to be audible. Fears. Hopes and dreams. Things I imagine we all leave in boxes, avoiding the work of unpacking.
We leave them there because it feels safer that way. It’s a lot of work to unpack! It means examining each item, deciding whether or not it’s worth holding onto, and if the answer is yes, then we have to find a place for it. And if the answer is no? Letting go can be so hard. Then there are those items that you know you need to keep, to relive, to understand, but it would sure be easier to stuff it back into the box and ignore it. And there are those items you take out which at first you don’t recognize—until you suddenly remember they had been yours all along. So how does it fit into your Home now?
*****
Sometimes I think it would be easier to let someone unpack for me. There’s a professional for that, right? But then I wouldn’t know where anything was. There’s really nothing that makes you feel more out of place than not knowing where things are in your own home. It takes time to learn where things live, even when you’ve placed them yourself. I wonder: How long does it take for it to truly be Home? And what is Home?
I know I live in Missouri. I know the house we currently reside in is ours. When we take a trip to the store or the zoo or the park and we head back to the house, I tell my kids we’re going “home.” But is it?
To say this is Home feels like an act of surrender and acceptance. One that I’m not fully ready to do. That’s why the boxes remain. That’s why the walls are bare.
But we’re here now. This IS where we are. I AM who I am. (That was not meant to be a biblical reference.) It’s time to move from home to Home. But the boxes might stay there a little longer; there is no shame in that. I will unpack them in time, just like those boxes in my soul. And when I’m good and ready, but not before, I’ll utter the words to myself, “Welcome Home.”
