Going away, and coming back.

I've just returned from a four day writing retreat, one that required a 3:30am wakeup call to catch the early morning flight out of town.

The Charleston airport is under construction, and I got lost as soon as I walked in. I went left and reached a dead end, discovering a temporary wall where the entrance to the gate used to be. A woman next to me shared the same expression. Where do we go? 

We looked up and around and finally found the sign pointing us to a giant, wide open room with long lines and security scanners. I texted Shawn, who was definitely awake, packing lunches and getting the kids ready for school. "The airport looks like a totally different place."

"I know," he texted back. He travels all the time. "I thought I'd landed at the wrong airport once."

I laughed at the image—my outwardly cool husband and that millisecond when he feared he'd taken the wrong plane home.

While I was gone, short texts from Shawn kept me connected to my people. 

An image of Cate, eating a bowl of whipped cream. "Don't worry about us," it read. A picture of Blake, with an orange belt wrapped around his torso, a white belt tied around his head, and a toy sword stuck in his pants. The caption: "Time for karate." 

These assurances let me know that everyone was fine, and that it's also fine for me to go away sometimes. It's okay to have flown off the morning after my birthday. 

When I arrived at my destination, I immediately felt at home in the setting. The lodge was beautiful and clean and spacious. The view was perfect. 

But when I went downstairs on that first day to meet everyone, I became instantly aware that I was the new girl, the one from out of town. The hellos and introductions were kind and polite and welcoming, but they didn't know me. They didn't know my real life self, or even the voice on this blog, or where those two identities connect. And, I didn't know them. I didn't know who they are or where they've been or how they see things. It was an interesting personal observation—all of us, gathered, sitting on couches, and me watching myself navigate my own personality in that unfamiliar setting. So, I gave myself permission to feel awkward and decided that I didn't have to "be" anyone or anything. I decided that I simply needed to be in the room. Be present. 

And soon, as we shared our writing, engaged in casual conversations, and prepared meals together, we found entry points. Suddenly, I wasn't a stranger. They were not strangers.  

During those four short days away, I learned how important it is seek out safe places. Places where our most private stories are shared and kept confidential. Places that allow us to open up. And I learned how we can arrive at these safe places when we step out of our comfort zones, outside of the environments where everyone knows us. 

At the end, we all agreed that the retreat was too short. We wished aloud for more time. We were sad to leave. We hugged goodbye and returned to our lives. 

My flight arrived in Charleston at midnight. I did not get lost on my way out. I walked straight out the door to the well-lit parking garage. At that late hour, the airport was still busy. I felt safe there, too. 

I drove home. Slipped in quietly. Put on pajamas, washed my face, brushed my teeth. I opened the bathroom door, ready to slide into bed. As I did, I saw the six-year-old who had escaped his own bed and was now climbing into my spot. I told him to scoot over, but he was already asleep. Snoring. I pushed him closer to his dad and wrestled my pillow from under his head. After a few nights of sleeping alone, diagonal across the bed at the lodge and not sharing the covers, I smiled at the contrast. I closed my eyes, hugging the edge of mattress. 

At that moment, away and home felt connected. Away and home—these are the places where the stories happen. And my everyday world, where everyone knows me, suddenly felt new.

Have you ever gone to an unfamiliar place and returned feeling like your true self? 

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