So Spake Mo
Twenty years.
Twenty years since we
shared the journey of childhood together, since the stories of our lives were
so bound up in one another that we gave shape to each other, to the people we
would become. Amidst canyon and sagebrush, in the cradle of a one-stoplight
town, we began.
Twenty years.
Twenty years since we
set off to become that something more, to create the new people we held in the
dreams of our hearts. And in those twenty years, we created ourselves anew so
many times: cashier, engineer, homemaker, soldier, admin, entrepreneur, artist,
manager, teacher. Along this road, in the throes of the journey, we were aided
by the wisdom and the folly of hundreds as we retooled our dreams to match
reality…or reality to match our dreams.
Twenty years.
Twenty years into the
journey we return. We come in the guise of middle age, wearing the dust of so
long a road, so many selves created and discarded. We come wrapped in the
critique and the support of the hundreds we’ve met along the way. But for all
their love and advice, they could never truly know all of who we are. They were
not there when we began:
Amidst canyon and
sagebrush, in the cradle of a one-stoplight town.
Among those who helped
shape our original story.
Among friends.
Welcome home.
So Spake Me…
There it is. My own personal creation story, my myth. And it
is so very startling how archetypal the actors, events, the places of our
legends become in just twenty short years. My memories have become aged snapshots,
grainy and uncertain in their detail. Only the most vivid of the defining
moments remain and as I gaze back at them in my mind, I can’t help but wonder
how much of the truth remains after so many retellings.
I wrote Mo’s speech as the welcome piece for the reunion
book, looking forward to the reunion, looking at those snapshot memories anew.
With the fears of youth set to the side, curiosity rose up in its place.
Slowly, steadily my classmates transformed into one hundred and thirty-four
books I had never finished and “What happened next?” became the nagging
question tugging at my mind every time I stumbled across a Facebook post, an
old photo tucked in an worn children’s game, or a dusty yearbook I’d glanced
past for years without seeing.
And when the nights came?
The stories were more fascinating than I could have possibly
expected. Probably because they mattered to me. These people, I knew how hard
they had to work, how far they had to climb to get where they were now. And the
peaks they had conquered! Business owners, Air Force pilots, PhDs, researchers,
mothers, fathers, husbands, wives, flying high in the big city, settling cozy
in the small towns, even planting roots in our own hometown to keep her
thriving.
So many stories. Each story so new and yet so familiar. So many
glimpses at the archetype I had become in my classmates’ own legends—the girl I
had once been seen from new eyes. Each glimpse so surprising and so sweet.
And when the nights were over?
I left with a bit of sorrow at the stories left unheard, at
the renewed connections I knew would fade once more. I left missing my people.
But I also left happy. I am so proud of the people I come
from, how they have grown no matter what path they chose.
And that brings me the profoundest comfort.
Welcome home.
