The me I left behind
is she still there?
I started reading a new book today. It’s called Goodbye, Eastern Europe, and it’s the kind of book I love to read but rarely make time for. A minister friend who shares my love of history recommended it to me almost a year ago.
The book tells the story of the people of Eastern Europe—their beliefs, their heritage, their transformations. I’m only about 12 pages in, have been thoroughly enjoying it, and have considered stopping probably five times.
Why, you ask, would I want to stop reading a book I’m enjoying? Eh, it’s complicated.
I studied history in college. History and Music. When I changed my major from Music Education to a double Bachelors degree in two different fields, I felt invigorated. Like Bilbo leaving the Shire. Recalling the day, I feel like I’m suddenly breathing the air from my freshman dorm room. There’s excitement in that air. Excitement to learn. To explore. To become.
The last three years of my college experience hold some of my favorite memories. I was privileged to sing in one of the country’s best collegiate choirs every day. I checked out stacks of books on medieval witchcraft from the library. I wrote so much, and read so much more, and I felt like I was discovering worlds within worlds.
People loved to hear me sing. I won awards for my papers. I taught a freshmen class how to formulate a thesis. When I talked in discussion circles, people listened. They challenged me. They infuriated and inspired me. They lent me dense books and expected great things from me. What I learned from those years studying and singing and writing—about people, about life, about the things that connect us and sunder us—I carry with me now as a wife, mother, and missionary. But I miss that place, the seeking of knowledge, the companionship on the journey. I have to admit, too, that I miss the sense of having something to say, something that’s worth hearing. I miss the you-are-part-of-a-whole.
I miss that little universe so much that entering its atmosphere feels almost painful.
Opening the introduction of this book today, I felt my heart swell with the anticipation of treasures to be discovered. At the same time a sense of grief, of impostor-hood, of loneliness passed over me. Sure, I can plumb this cave for its secrets, but who will share them with me? No one’s going to want to hear about pagan Slavs and their heart-eating kings or discuss sword-wielding, brutish Christianity and the redemptive sweep of history with me. And if they did, I’d be revealed as the washed-up hack I am. I don’t know anything worth knowing anymore.
That’s how it feels, though I’m sure it doesn’t have to be true. But my past experience, that feeling of being let in to a world I admired and pined for, has maybe fogged over the present for me. Made me feel I have to be invited to learn, to think, to write, lest I find myself unwanted and ashamed, a toddler stealing candy.
It’s like I left a part of myself behind at school, like a piece of my soul has been locked away—or worse, tucked into a cabinet and forgotten. It’s like my life is so different now that rediscovering that part of me would mean remaking myself completely.
Do I have permission to re-open that door? Why do I feel I need permission?
Was my enthusiasm for the learning, the adventure, the mapmaking nothing more than enthusiasm for being heard, being valued?
Or is this really a part of who I am, a passion I can hold on to and pursue and let grow up with and out of me? And why does the idea of that sound so daunting?
I don’t know what this is about, really. Only that I’ve been feeling so spent for lack of writing. So starved for space in my head. So anxious to feel like me, to not be selfish, to say things that make sense or matter. Maybe part of the answer is somewhere here, dusting off my historian chops and not holding myself to whatever standard, arbitrary or otherwise, that’s been gatekeeping me. Maybe you’ll hear more of my thoughts on what I’m reading in the future. Maybe I’ll stop judging myself for not doing enough, knowing enough, absorbing enough. Maybe I’ll figure out how all the parts of me fit together.
Maybe that’s why I find myself here, sitting amongst strewn-about toys and squawking children, reading a book about Eastern Europe, that land of contradictions.
