“We begin to find and become ourselves when we notice how we are already found, already truly, entirely, wildly, messily, marvelously who we were born to be.”—Anne Lamott

I recently wrote about giving myself permission to decorate my walls on my own time. It was a relaxing thought, this idea that my mindset mirrored my new house and it was ok to just be, to live in an ambiguous state, to not have to decide what I liked or where things would go. I was in transition in so many ways, and having blank walls in a fresh home seemed like a perfect metaphor (that i got to actually live inside of!) I had all sorts of ideas:  weird vintage wall hangings that reminded me of how my grandmother decorated her place, some modernist abstracts (which I admire so much but have a hard time painting myself), PLANTS!  Of course this was all in my head. I really didn’t have any extra time or money to bring these ideas to life. And the blank walls have been refreshing in their novelty: lots of mood-lifting reflected light, the illusion of open-space, so much pure potential. Lately, though (and it didn’t take long) that novelty has turned oppressive, and I’ve felt like I’m living inside a swimming pool, with all those unbroken walls rising up around me, closing me in. The tipping point must have come because I decided to take this holiday weekend to finally bring out the hammer and nails and hang something…anything…on the walls around me.

But here is the thing…I had nothing new to decorate with.  All that dreaming about how I might like my new habitat to look/feel didn’t really matter because I only have the same things I moved from the last place, the same things I’d moved from the time before, and the time before. Oh there has been some change here and there, of course—I got rid of several pieces of artwork and photos in my grand attempt toward minimalism in my last move—but I haven’t actually acquired anything new, and I realized I really don’t want to, unless something rare and amazing jumps out at me (and it hasn’t.) Four of the six paintings I hung on the dining room wall today have been with me from before I moved them to England. The other two were gifts from Vernon. It was a bit humbling to accept that I’d rather look at the same old things I’ve had for ages than the blank walls of infinite possibility.  I have more photos and artwork to put up tomorrow, now leaning on other walls around the house. (I’ve already misplaced my hammer a few times so have given up for now.)

All this has made me think about how little I have actually changed, at least if my collection-of-special-objects gives any indication. Yet for the past year (at least) my mindset has been completely colored by this idea that I’d been so changed by Vernon’s death and all that led to that. I was sure this time was about discovering the new me, someone completely separate from the old me, whoever that was. It was like the rip through my so-called reality had been so extreme that I couldn’t imagine ever reconnecting again. The damage felt too big to fathom. So I only looked forward as if the rope was let go from my spaceship and gravity altogether.

A few other things I’ve learned about have also underlined this new place of acceptance (time will tell how temporary/sustainable this is.) I’ve been interested in reading up on personality types for some time: namely the Meyers- Briggs personality type and the Enneagram (disclaimer: I am apparently the personality type that really gets into studying personality types). I mostly got into this because it helped me understand my children/parenting better and as a parlor game with my siblings as we try to work out our family dynamics. (I wish I’d considered it more in my marriage: I have no doubt I would have understood Vernon better. I’m pretty sure he was an ISFP and probably a 5w4 if you’ll allow me to get nerdy with it.) My advice for grievers or anyone going through a dis-connective change would be to consider reading up on these personality types and finding how your brain relates to the world. I know it sounds cheesy, but when I was involved in grief groups and couldn’t understand why others didn’t grieve like I did, why so few felt the need to be creative with their pain, it made me feel very alienated…but now I understand there is actually some science/psychology to our differences and that none of us are actually weirdos (but we are probably all crazy!) I find comfort in knowing that each of us has a true method to our madness—that it’s not random after all! It’s great to have permission to be yourself…and to figure out who that is.

This is embarrassingly accurate, I’m afraid. Why DOES everyone have to be so complicated? Why? (Find a funny map of your own brain by typing in “your type” +brain in Google images. Disregard the bad spelling.)

In the process of moving this summer, I also rediscovered my MUCH younger self when I found a trunk of old notes and letters, yearbooks, photos from high school and some college that I thought had been gone forever. The most revealing to me in this time capsule was a folder full of poems and essays I’d written as a teenager. They were pretty awful, for the most part, certainly immature and over-the-top, but as I read them, I had to admit that it was the same voice I have now, just a lot younger and more angst-riddled. I was writing about many of the same things I’ve written about throughout my life: similar motivations, fears, dreams, insanities. Ok, I’ve added a few themes to my arsenal like death and loss, but underneath, it was the same voice. I found this rather shocking, and honestly, a little upsetting. Why hadn’t I trusted this voice? Why had I put it down over and over again…when it wasn’t going to change that much anyway, when it would still be with me (even helping me) thirty years later? As much as I thought I’d changed after Vernon died, most of the same stuff is still there after all—and for awhile, that was kind of hard to accept too, but I’m getting there.

We are who we are. We change, yes…a lot. Hopefully we stretch and mature, we become more others-focused and compassionate, we might even get to do some lasting good in the world if we keep trying, but we are stuck with our personalities more or less for life. We might as well celebrate them, might as well decorate our living spaces with them or, at the very least, accept them. They aren’t going anywhere else.

(I wrote most of this last night, but when I got up this morning, and I saw some of my old pictures on the walls. They aren’t new and exciting, but I admit I felt more at home than I have yet. Now I just have to find that hammer…)