To all the me's I've loved before

“When we rediscover our childlike nature, we
enter a world of gentle possibility. Consequently,
we find ourselves more frequently at the place
of ease, delight and celebration. The false burdens
fall away. We come into rhythm with ourselves.
Our clay shape gradually learns to walk beautifully
on this magnificent earth.”
John O’Donohue, anam cara

Have you ever had a friend you couldn’t keep your hands off? I did. We were both 13 and in that almost adulting phase. I couldn’t believe my good fortune to have found this incredible person willing to take on the world with me. That is how I remember my friendship with Cathy Ricker from the early 1980s, and to be honest I don’t remember much more than that. Like how we met or whether we had any classes together in 8th grade. All I know, and what is confirmed in photo after photo from back then, is that I seem to have been hanging on to her for dear life.

So, you might be surprised to find that she and I lost touch at some point before we went to college. I suppose it was to be expected. We had only lived in the same town of Sparta, NJ for about a year, and though we visited each other after I moved away (including that fateful night on Broadway with Matthew Broderick!), we eventually drifted apart. I finally found her work address on LinkedIn and sent her a three-page letter this January (handwritten—felt very 1982). She emailed the minute she got it and that’s how I ended up on her living room floor pouring over old photos.

Catherine, as she’s known today, was the perfect companion for my first official 35 Houses foray. She was the Cagney to my Lacey, the Snoop Dogg to my Martha Stewart, someone to make sure I didn’t take this whole project—or myself—too seriously. She also introduced me to her slice of New Jersey paradise. Not just the beautiful beaches or snowy Lake Mohawk, the historic Twin Lighthouses or Red Bank’s quaint Broad Street, but the kind of nightlife I keep dreaming about (see my rant in this post). Of the four nights I stayed with her, we spent two dancing to actual bands that played music I actually knew the words to in bars that were full of people just like me (well, let’s not go *that* far, there were people there approximately my age…). It was exhilarating. I felt free in a way I haven’t in a very long time. There is no question in my mind that the entire trip, and not just the four days in Jersey, would have been completely different if I hadn’t started the month with Catherine. Her infectious lust for life and devil-may-care outlook set the tone for my journey, and I will be forever grateful to her knocking a few key cracks in my protective casing before I set off.

She even somehow got me inside House #7 in Sparta, the Butch Cassidy to my Sundance Kid. Once we finally got the address from my sister’s friend Mimi (who lives in Bogotá of all places, what a twisted web!), I asked gentleman standing outside if I could snap a photo, Catherine and her sweet daughter Carly smiling to assure him I wasn’t a serial killer. Before he could answer, his wife appeared on the deck and said, “Did I hear you say you used to live here? Come on in!”, a quintessentially American welcome if I ever saw one. The house had tripled in size over the past 40 years, annexing the next-door lot for a new wing over a double garage. Going inside was perplexing. The drop ceiling was open to the rafters, but the higgeldy piggeldy stairs and picture window felt vaguely familiar. I was sure I recognized a door frame from one of my old photos, but now that I’ve compared them, I’m not so sure…

Let’s just say I didn’t have any epiphanies walking in House #7, but that is never what this trip was about. I wasn’t traveling all this way to find physical cues to my past. This has always been more of a journey inward. A chance to glimpse all the me’s I was before, so that I might make sense of the me I am today and, God willing, become the best me I can tomorrow. An experiment in moving through the world alone, just me, unapologetic myself and braver-than-imagined I. With Catherine there to take me back to 1982 me, I could get through some of the layers of adulting, responsibility and self-control to access a level of abandon I didn’t think was even possible anymore. Younger me used to be very good at that, and it was great to feel like her again.

House #7 was almost unrecognizable in how it has changed. But I am happy to report that the same cannot be said for me.