Two decades of marriage over. No drama, please. Divorce sucks. It is what it is.
Once I had accepted this fact, around 2005, I began the process of mental separation. Who am I? What am I doing here? I wasn’t raised here. I have no family to fall back on. I don’t belong here.
And yet, this empty place is a part of me now, a part of who I’ve become. It’s hard enough to end a marriage, but to divorce myself? How do I do that?
These questions swirled around inside my head for months, coming to a head one day when I was standing on a dike behind a deserted homestead. I was praying fervently for direction. Where do you want me to go? What do you want me to do? How do I leave everything behind and start over? What about my kids? I need an answer. Give me an answer and I’ll obey, no matter how hard. But, I need something I can hold on to, God. Something solid.
The ancient windmill creaked and groaned and tried to turn though the air was still.
I turned to go. My eye caught a flash of white on the ground. I knelt and looked closer. There, nestled in the bare circle of soil left behind by a cow patty, was a perfect white arrowhead.
I’d never found an arrowhead here before. Heck. I never find arrowheads anywhere. And it wasn’t a bird point, either. It was about an inch long, with a notched groove running through the center. And it was so bright and clean. Polished. Almost as if someone had planted it there.
I stood, following an imaginary trajectory with my eye. It was pointing at the old homestead.
My first thought was You have got to be kidding me.
My next was I didn't really expect an answer.
I picked up the arrowhead and held it tightly, the jaggedy edges cutting into my palm.
The whole place looked like a warzone. Elm branches, fallen through the years, formed a protective cage around the buildings. Barn doors hung haphazardly from their frames. Window panes broken. Tin peeling off the roofs. The rock wall surrounding the yard was crumbling.
Wearing sandals and a sundress, I climbed over and under and around and through the fallen trees, weaving a path toward the house until the wall stopped me. Scratched into the cement on top was a set of names. Women’s names. And dates. 1952. A little further down. Another woman’s name. 1939. Elsewhere, another name and date. All women.
What in the world?
As time goes by, I’ll tell you more about the Crazy House. But for now, I’ll introduce her as a curmudgeonly old lady who has grown tired of men with fancy ideas about what she ought to look like, or who she ought to be. Originally built during the days of homesteaders, she’s held off Indians, cowboys and the infernal New Mexico wind for nearly a century. Drawing her skirts tightly about her frame, she managed to survive two decades of complete abandonment to the elements and marauding cattle, thank you very much.
Rats and mice. Snakes and spiders. Raccoons and badgers. She’s seen it all. She’s been pillaged by thieves. Struck by lightning. Even had a dead cow in her bathroom.
And still she stands, her shingled roof hat slightly askew.
She’s tough. And kind of classy, in her own way.
It took 6 years and a lot of cajoling to bring her into this century. At times, she seemed almost grateful. Other days, she obstinately held her ground, refusing to budge an inch, which is why I have a crooked hall that leads to nowhere and a bathroom in my bedroom.
She has a sense of humor.
And a bit of a temper.
And she has secrets. So many wonderful secrets.
But at night, as I lay cradled in her womb, I feel protected. Safely tucked away until I am ready to be born anew.
Outside, scratched into the cement in front of her tiny yard, stands a guard of women who have loved her. I am proud to say, the last name on the list is mine.
And inside, on the dresser beside my grandmother’s Bible and a picture of my granddaughters, is the arrowhead. Together, they serve as a reminder.
This is who I am. This is where I came from. And this is where I’m going.
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