The first thing I did was rest and heal.  For a few months, I did the daily basics—cooking, cleaning, reading, sleeping.  I studied core books.  I worked with my family.  I tried not to think too much.  I began dejunking my house—and my life.  I asked questions like, “What are my priorities?  How can I best serve those ideals?  What do I like to do?  What am I good at?” 
 
So, the first truth I’ve learned is: Transitions take you back to your CORE.

More soul-searching came as I sorted through papers and clothes and books and pans.  What had I done wrong?  How could I prevent the hurt and the confusion I was feeling from returning?  What was coming next for me?  I studied photography.  I practiced ballet.  I contacted old friends and reviewed personality theories.  I worked with a life coach.  I exercised and began eating differently.  I became more aware of my feelings and my reactions to those feelings.  I started to see myself and those around me in a new light.
 
The second truth I’ve learned is: Transitions allow you to look at your SELF closely.

​I discovered I like photography—and I’m pretty good at it.  I actually won a prize in a county photography contest last spring.  I realized I love being able to read and write as I feel the urge.  I continued on the path to healing my body, mind, and spirit by discovering parts of myself I’d forgotten—or didn’t know I possessed. 
 
But I also discovered I don’t like being told what to do.  I value my freedom and choice.  And I lack self-control—to exercise, to write, to move forward.  So I need a touchstone of some sort.  I returned to writing on this blog, to sift my feelings and practice my writing, to give me accountability.  And I invited women I admire, and that I feel are on a similar path, to join together in a community of creators. 
 
The third truth I’ve learned is: Transitions support your SOUL in becoming the best “you.”
 
I can’t say I now know who I am and what I need to do for the rest of my life.  That would be naïve and probably impossible.  But I have come to believe this last year that I will continually struggle to uncover my true self and fulfill my purpose.  There is no “Estimated Time of Arrival” for when that will be accomplished.  I will always be learning new things, discovering talents and truths I didn’t know I possessed, working on challenges, and striving toward dreams. 

​Obviously, we were immersed in a different culture from the United States—not only European, but Spanish.  I have traveled the world—the whole family has—but this time, in this country, the whispers of Roman, Moorish, and Iberian peoples sifted their way into my soul and my heart.  History isn’t just studied here—it is lived.  Modern and ancient buildings stand side-by-side as children walk down the street to school.  Countryside caves contain Paleolithic artwork.  Architecture in villages and cities marries Christian, Islamic, and Jewish elements.  Shops and castles, even whole towns, close for mediodia—a much-needed, but inconvenient, afternoon break for tourists.  Eating dinner before 9pm marks you as an outsider.  Spanish tortilla and chocolate may be eaten at any meal—or for a snack.  Masculinity is central, but femininity conveys its own power. 

​Whatever the differences, the similarities were comforting: the importance of family, of the land, of freedom; the thoughtfulness and generosity of strangers; the great expanse of countryside.  Invitations to home-cooked meals with my husband’s long-lost friends; apartment owners leaving us lists of things to do, favorite restaurants, and maps of the city; a tour guide translating the Spanish tour he’s already given into English so I could understand the history and beauties of prehistoric cave paintings; cheek-kisses from church members; and smiles from strangers on the street—all of these sweet gestures more than made up for the frustrations of not being able to locate a hotel; walking uphill everywhere we went (not even kidding); wandering around outside of a castle, instead of inside, because it’s mediodia; and finding absolutely no parking anywhere in Spain. 
 
How beautiful that, in visiting another part of the world, we discovered we are more alike than we are different! 

From the beginning of time, people have gravitated to fresh water and plains for nourishment or forests and mountain ranges for protection.  Animals are indigenous to the best environments for their growth and reproduction. 
 
The wide open spaces of the American West shaped a certain person—self-sufficient, open, and adventurous.  A tropical climate creates laid-back, slower-paced people.  Even man-made geography, like skyscrapers or suburban tract houses, produces a cultural personality. 
 
I have lived in and visited many places with distinctive geographical and psychological peculiarities.  Each location has contributed to create the person I have become.

I was born in Chicago.  Maybe that’s why, to this day, I feel at home and alive in big cities. I don’t really remember the city itself, since we moved to Missouri when I was two, but urban skyscrapers, along with forested roads and endless vistas in the Midwest, call to me.  In Kansas City, the trees and streams and rolling hills were my sanctuary.  We lived at the end of a circle, in a pioneer-era home, with a meadow, pond, stream, and forest behind us, but a bustling street only a city block to the northeast of us.  Leafy-green foliage kept us hidden from, but close to, city life.  I could burrow myself in a shrub or under a giant fir tree, where I couldn’t be found, and think, play, and dream.  Childhood heaven!

When I was fourteen, we moved to Utah Valley.  Desert landscape, the Utah LDS culture, and adolescence combined to give me extreme culture shock!  I missed the trees and the green.  I felt exposed and vulnerable.  I learned to climb the apricot tree, or sit near the irrigation ditch with my feet floating in the water, for peace and quiet.  I learned to appreciate the encircling mountains shielding me.  I learned to fit in quietly and not make waves. 
 
As a young adult, I lived in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia, for two summers, working for the American School Summer Rec Program, while my pilot father flew for Saudia Airlines.  I believe it was there I finally learned to love the golden stillness of the desert.  For the first and only time in my life, I lived near a body of water—the Red Sea, with its coral reefs and blue waves.  Western females were warned to cover arms and ankles in 115° heat.  The dusty gold souk smelled of sizzling shawarmas, tropical fruit, salty sea breeze, and sweat.  I struggled to remember that many of these people were only one or two generations from being nomads.  In Jeddah, I absorbed strength in diversity and control in individuality. 
 
I studied in Paris for six months, and visited there before and since.  In Paris, I found myself.  Because of this gestational period of my life, my cultural surroundings, my mentors and companions, I discovered a strong and independent Bonnie during my time abroad.  Every time I return to Paris, walk the streets of the Latin Quarter, appreciate the stained glass of Notre Dame or Sainte-Chapelle, and relax in the Luxembourg Gardens, I find her again.

Shortly after we were married, my husband and I moved to the desert of Phoenix for grad school.  We entered the city at 10 pm in May and it was 100°!  Phoenix was so much like Saudi Arabia in its climate and geography.  Instead of the palm trees and ocean breezes of Jeddah, Arizona had cacti and orange blossoms.  I developed root strength and silent peace.  My husband and I became a team there, away from immediate family and life-long friends.  We learned to rely on each other.  
 
We then relocated to the Dallas-Fort Worth area for employment.  No family and friends at all.  But Texas reminded me so much of my beloved, green-rolling-hills Missouri that I adored it!  I could breathe again.  We lived there several years.  Our children were born there.  We made fast friends.  It felt so much like home I thought we might stay forever. 
 
But after more than ten years away, we returned to Utah.  Although I wasn’t happy about the move, I had forgotten how I missed the protection of the mountains and being near family.  We have lived in Davis County, Utah, for over twenty years.  Our children grew up here.  We remodeled our home to suit ourselves.  We enjoy helping friends and family.  Yet I long for the verdant hills of the Midwest and the South. 
 
In the past year I have visited Roanoke, Virginia, and the Washington, DC, area; Northern Wyoming; Cedar City and southern Utah; and Portland and coastal Oregon.  Each place impressed me with its unique cultural beauty.  I found not only my treasured trees and lush shrubbery, but the history and patriotism of Virginia and DC, spoke to my heart.  Enjoying the Wyoming plains and Bighorn Mountains with my dad reminded me of the importance of land and roots.  Red-rock wilderness juxtaposed with the refinement and emotion of world-class theater in a tiny southern Utah college town.  The busy-ness and quirkiness of Portland, followed by the serenity of the ocean waves, sea life, and majestic Redwoods of the coast, soothed my spirit. 
 
Each location we inhabit, even for a short time, touches us in a different way—modifying, and mending, our souls.  Bodies and minds respond to geography.  Personalities and cultures are molded by the land surrounding them.

Loneliness expresses the pain of being alone and solitude expresses the glory of being alone.  --Paul Tillich
 
I have not been truly alone often in my life.  I was a semi-solitary child, and I loved roaming the meadow and woods behind my childhood home as much as I loved playing with the neighbors.  My mother was somewhat protective and made sure I checked in often.  I lived with my family until I went to college.  There, I lived with roommates and, again, at home, until I got married.  Since then, I’ve had a husband and two children to be accountable to—and for.  In my professional life, I worked as a waitress, sold cosmetics and cooking tools, and taught school—all of which required other people to be present.  I’ve had moments of solitude, to be sure, but not great stretches of time alone. 
 
Only alone can I draw close enough to God to discover His secrets.  --George Washington Carver
 
A Native American tradition of solitude, the vision quest, makes the assumption that one may come to know one’s purpose by being physically alone, reliant on no one else, clearing the mind and body, meditating, and being open to spiritual guidance.  This guidance will benefit the whole community, even though it is personal and sacred to the individual.[i] 
 
Catholics, Quakers, Buddhists, and Jews all have traditions mandating seclusion.  Authors, artists, philosophers, and scientists realize that creativity, problem-solving, contemplation, and reverie thrive in privacy, prior to collaboration.  Emerson[ii], Thoreau[iii], Hemingway[iv], and Dickinson[v] wrote about solitude.  Picasso and Vermeer painted it.  Michelangelo and Rodin sculpted it.

Being solitary is being alone well: being alone luxuriously immersed in doings of your own choice, aware of the fullness of your own presence rather than of the absence of others.  Because solitude is an achievement.  --Alice Koller
 
Three times I have been in situations where I considered myself truly solitary—accountable to myself rather than others and not being responsible for anyone else.  Once, I was left behind from a family reunion to attend professional training.  I had the house to myself for a week, which was illuminating.  I could go where I chose, when I chose.  I could eat what I wanted and sleep when I wanted.  I discovered an inner peace I wasn’t sure I had. 
 
Twice, I traveled to Paris for education: first, as a twenty year-old college student and, second, to receive French teacher training.  In both instances, I went with groups, but didn’t know anyone before I registered. 
 
On each trip, it took time before I felt comfortable being alone—walking the streets of Paris, riding the Metro, wandering a museum, on my own.  However, when I was by myself, I had amazing experiences. 
 
During my Study Abroad, at the end of a rare solitary afternoon, I walked to the Musée Grévin, the Paris wax museum. I planned to look at the unusual architecture and return to the pension.  As I was standing in front, a handsome young Frenchman approached and asked if I was American.  We talked for a minute, and he asked if I would go to the café with him to practice his English. I said I had to enter the museum for my class, assuming he would go away.  He asked for my phone number, to meet another time.  I collected a pen and paper from the lady at the entrance and wrote the first digits of the pension’s number, but made sure the last digit wasn’t correct.  Then I paid my fee to the same lady, who gave me a dirty look, and went into the museum alone.  I felt empowered that I had kept myself safe.  And I actually enjoyed the museum more on my own.  
 
Recently, I returned to France with four other French teachers and our professor.  While there, I broke my ankle—which is another story altogether.  Because I tired easily, I opted out of the shopping trip after class one day.  Instead, I stopped at several places to take pictures and enjoy the uniqueness and beauties of the neighborhood.  Since I was alone, I took my time, staying, resting, and leaving when I wanted.  I lingered at the Place Stravinsky, the Église St-Merri, and the Tour St-Jacques.  After I exited the Metro at Montrouge, two older women stopped me on the street, asking in French what I had done to my leg and then asking about our trip.  I was able to speak to them in their own language and thank them for their concern.  If I had been with the other teachers, I’m sure they would not have stopped and questioned me.  I gained confidence as I explained myself in another language.

The hardest thing about doing the right thing for yourself is you usually have to do it alone.  --Po Bronson, What Should I Do With My Life?
 
I took a sabbatical this year, a Western cultural tradition of solitude.  I have used the time to be alone, slow down, and regroup.  With children grown, and that portion of my life ending, I needed to redefine myself.  Instead, I am rediscovering myself.  
 
Ester Buchholz said, “Now, more than ever, we need our solitude. Being alone gives us the power to regulate and adjust our lives. It can teach us fortitude and the ability to satisfy our own needs. A restorer of energy, the stillness of alone experiences provides us with much-needed rest. It brings forth our longing to explore, our curiosity about the unknown, our will to be an individual, our hopes for freedom. Alonetime is fuel for life.”[vi] 
 
I glory in my current solitude.  I consider it a sacred quest.  I am allowing myself to ponder, to create, and to grow.  I am developing talents, nourishing mind and body, and discovering weaknesses and strengths.  I will leave this self-imposed seclusion with a renewed vision of my life, stronger and wiser, able to benefit my community. 
 
The Word comes not to the noisemakers but to those who are silent.  --Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Life Together

Endnotes:
[i] http://native-americans-online.com/native-american-vision-quest.html, accessed January 26, 2017.   
 
[ii] Society and Solitude.
 
[iii] Walden.
 
[iv] The Old Man and the Sea, as one example. 
 
[v] Poem 18 
There is another Loneliness
That many die without -
Not want of friend occasions it
Or circumstances of Lot

But nature, sometimes, sometimes thought
And whoso it befall
Is richer than could be revealed
By mortal numeral
--Emily Dickinson
 
Poem 777
The Loneliness One dare not sound-
And would as soon surmise
As in its Grave go plumbing
To ascertain the size-

The Loneliness whose worst alarm
Is lest itself should see-
And perish from before itself
For just a scrutiny-

The Horror not to be surveyed-
But skirted in the Dark-
With Consciousness suspended-
And Being under Lock-

I fear me this-is Loneliness-
The Maker of the soul
Its Caverns and its Corridors
Illuminate-or seal-
--Emily Dickinson
 
[vi] Buchholz, Ester. “The Call of Solitude,” Psychology Today, January 1, 1998, https://www.psychologytoday.com/articles/199801/the-call-solitude, accessed January 28, 2017.   

While my daughter was home for Christmas, she and I drove out to Antelope Island.   We had seen videos of geometric ice blocks crashing against the causeway, shifting as if they were alive, and wanted to see them for ourselves. 
 
It was late afternoon as we traveled the causeway toward the island, noting places we wanted to photograph on the way back.  Shadows were long and the vista was longer.  The Great Salt Lake stretched to the horizon, framed by the smoky purplish hills of the island and the lowering sun.  We saw only two or three cars while we crossed the causeway, but as we approached the island itself, we noticed a few parked at the base of the hill heading onto the island.  In a small bit of snowy grass surrounded by the icy blue lake, the concrete causeway, and the island itself, stood a large bison. 
 
We parked in a small lot on the opposite side of the causeway, and while I grabbed my camera, my daughter beat me to the other side and had already taken several photos with her phone.  I focused and fiddled with my camera settings and prepared to capture this serendipitous moment. 
 
I looked through the viewfinder to see the bison fix his large brown eyes on us and start moving slowly our way. 

I want to say that my first thought was for my daughter’s safety—that was certainly in my mind, but I don’t remember.  That bison approaching us filled me with so much fear I only took one picture, even though I knew this might be a once-in-a-lifetime chance.  I said, “I think we’d better go back to the car.”  And I started backing up. 
 
My daughter, on the other hand, kept taking pictures.  I told her again that we ought to return to the car.  She said we had nothing to worry about—look how far away the bison was!  My mind swirled with news reports of large animal attacks.  Mother’s instinct failed me as I kicked into flight mode and began walking across the causeway to the parking lot.  In the middle of the road, I turned and snapped two shots of my daughter still watching the bison.

I reached the car before she started back.  We turned away from the island, stopping at several places along the causeway to shoot pictures of blue ice and water birds and grassy beach and orange sunset.  At each stop, although I had the really good camera, and she just had a cellphone, my daughter was the one on her knees, or climbing over rocks, or walking through long grass, to get a better shot. 
 
How had I raised a young woman with this kind of courage?  I contrasted our reactions.  I am ashamed that fear overcame my core protective instincts and mother-love, that I am not more flexible in body and spirit.  I realize her youth and relative inexperience give her boldness.  I recall that she attended a university across the country from us, wandered Paris alone during her study abroad, lived on the south side of Chicago for eighteen months as a church missionary, and returned to the east coast to work.  She had made friends with gang members, southern belles, college professors, and Hispanic immigrants.  She had practiced choosing courage. 
 
I am beginning to consciously grow my courage.  I am venturing out of my comfort zone currently, as I learn to nourish my body and soul, as I cultivate lifelong interests into talents.

One thing coming up for me during this transition time is the element of Fear.  I have been afraid of a fresh beginning, of aspects of my mental and physical health, and of uncertainties in my children’s lives.  I have also been afraid of going places alone, trying something different, and failing in my new endeavors. 
 
My life coach tells me that there are really only two emotions—Love and Fear.  All other feelings are facets of these two core emotions.  Happiness, joy, contentment, and other positive feelings spring from Love.  Hatred, anger, depression and sadness, confusion, frustration, and other negative feelings emanate from Fear.  This information astounds me, even as it makes sense, because of my own choices.  Why do I choose Fear over Love? 
 
As a Christian, I identify Love with Charity.  In 1 Corinthians 13, Christians are reminded that even if we do many good works, if we are not filled with charity, it profiteth us nothing.  Paul then goes on to enumerate many qualities of Charity: patience, kindness, contentment, humility, propriety, unselfishness, tranquility, innocence, honesty, hopefulness, and endurance.  “Charity never faileth.”

Tzedakah, the Hebrew word for charity, means justice or righteousness and implies an obligation to help others.  “ . . . [F]or Jews, giving to the poor is no optional extra but an essential part of living a just life.”  (Peter Singer, The Life You Can Save: Acting Now to End World Poverty)
 
The remorseful, shackled ghost from A Christmas Carol, Jacob Marley, details his own list of charitable qualities as he laments to Ebenezer Scrooge: "Mankind was my business; charity, mercy, forbearance, and benevolence, were, all, my business. The deals of my trade were but a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean of my business!”
 
So, what if I tried Love?  What if, instead of being afraid or angry or hurt or defensive, I saw each situation with Love?  How would that change my reaction to my family, my friends, and even strangers?  How would that change the way I viewed my life and other people? 
 
Martin Luther King, Jr., said, “Every man must decide whether he will walk in the light of creative altruism or in the darkness of destructive selfishness.”  I’d like to choose creative altruism, please, not the darkness of destructive selfishness.  And I believe creative altruism includes the way we treat ourselves, as well as the way we treat others—sometimes even harder for us to do. 
 
I love this little mini-lesson from Bernard de Clairvaux: “Neither fear nor self-interest can convert the soul. They may change the appearance, perhaps even the conduct, but never the object of supreme desire . . . .  Fear is the motive which constrains the slave; greed binds the selfish man, by which he is tempted when he is drawn away by his own lust and enticed (James 1:14). But neither fear nor self-interest is undefiled, nor can they convert the soul. Only charity can convert the soul, freeing it from unworthy motives.”
 
Oh, how I want to be free from unworthy motives!  Oh, how I want to be free, not a slave or self-obsessed!  Oh, how I want to live free from Fear and other negative emotions! 
 
What if I tried Love? 

I could feel the change happening before I left for Paris in the summer of 2015—even before I sat in the preparatory classes on BYU campus.  In fact, I felt the shift while working on my online grammar class that spring, as my own school year was winding down and decisions were being made for curriculum in the fall. 
 
Being a pilot’s daughter, I assumed it was the anticipation of traveling that explained the butterflies my stomach. 
 
But when I arrived in Paris, I felt a seismic tremor, reverberating in my life.  I reverted to my twenties, when I had last studied abroad, drinking in the city, the history, the art, and the people again.  I felt the return to my educational roots, my primal alignment with the universe, my personal purpose.  Paris had been a turning point in my young life.  And now, it seemed to be so again.

I walked the same cobblestone streets, but I had evolved.  I was the same wide-eyed student, but also different.  I had become a grown-up, a wife, a mother, a teacher.  And I slowly realized it wasn’t a calling to teach that had found me in Paris, but a calling to be myself.  That call was to be inspired, and to move others to be inspired, by art and history and culture and travel and beauty and truth.  I was feeling it again. 
 
I soaked it up as I roamed the Marais, ate falafel, and photographed the Hotel de Sens and the walls of Phillippe Augustus.  I immersed myself in it when I sat on a green bench in the Luxembourg Gardens, eating a mille-feuille and watching the men play boules.  I was drenched in it as I strolled through the Cluny Museum and sat on a stone terrace in the Arènes de Lutèce, bathing in the history and architecture.  I was showered with sacred awe as I revisited Notre Dame and Sainte-Chappelle, with their inspiring windows and architecture, on the Ile de la Cite. 
 
I’m not able to put into words all the ways I was tried—physically, spiritually, emotionally—while I was away for the month.  In fact, my companions also had times of trial and challenges.  But after an initial period of shock and complaint at each situation, I tried my best to forge ahead.  And we all tried to make it easier for each other. 
 
Wandering the green battlefields of Verdun, the medieval streets of Strasbourg, Victor Hugo’s apartment in the Place des Vosges, the alleys of Montmartre, and streets of the Seizième, filled me with a sense of history and culture that fueled my passion and creativity. 
 
Just standing in the Cathedral at Reims, where Clovis was baptized and Joan watched Charles being crowned, moved me, as I contemplated the centuries of worship that had taken place on that spot. 
 
Sitting at a sidewalk café, eating mousse au chocolat in the Latin Quarter, or trying sausage and choucroute in a tiny restaurant in Kaysersberg, or schnitzel at a table by the river in Breisach, filled me with gratitude for the diversity and tenacity of culture. 
 
Rambling through Saint Denis, the resting place for much of the royalty of France, turned me pensive and invited me to contemplate my own contribution and mortality. 
 
My cultural awareness began in Paris many years ago and was continuing to evolve here again.  However, I have since realized it wasn’t Paris itself, but the beauty and truth that culture, travel, and history represent to me, that was speaking to my soul.  Beauty and truth are the essential part of me, the foundation of my life and my life’s purpose.

Women have a tendency to take on many roles throughout their lives.  I am no exception.  I have been a daughter, child, first-born, friend, student, wife, mother, activist, home school mom, teacher, leader, writer, photographer, entrepreneur, mentor, caregiver, and more.  Yet, suddenly, I find myself drifting, in search of a new role--one that will fulfill me in this part of my life.

I didn't ever think I was a woman who defined herself by her children.  I was ambivalent about having children in the first place, since I was the first of five, and was given a lot of responsibility at home growing up.  When babies did arrive, I loved them more than I imagined.  And I tried to do whatever I could to help them learn and grow healthy and strong in body and mind.  Besides choosing to home school them, I also earned my MA and worked as a teacher for several years to help provide post-secondary education, which is a story for another day.  I taught in many different settings--home, charter, private, elementary, junior high, high school, and university.  I even co-founded a private school. 

Now my children are self-sufficient, and I am rethinking my life.  I thought of myself as an educator.  I was a teacher and mentor, in one way or another, for over twenty years.  But last spring, I walked away from all of that.  I had experienced a few traumatic years, physically and emotionally, and I felt I needed time to heal and refresh myself.  I fully intended to return to education.  In fact, my plans were to finish a set of curriculum books, do workshops and classes, and build my own mentoring business. 

And then, I couldn't do it.  I tried all summer to edit the first book, which has been close to publication for three years.  I couldn't focus for longer than an hour or so at a time.  I wanted to write other things--novels, poetry, travel articles, family history.  Forcing myself didn't work, even for these "fun" projects. 

I read and thought and slept and "wasted time."  My spirit was drained and my soul was exhausted.  I tried to go to my core books, to exercise, to eat properly, but all I wanted to do was "rest." 

At first, I wasn't worried.  My enthusiasm for life and love of learning would return.  But it didn't. 

Finally, after a few months, I did worry.  I tried to remember the last time I was happy.  I wondered who I really was.  Many of my roles didn't fit very well any more.  I hired a friend, a health and nutrition coach, to help me out of my funk.  Even though I was paying her, I didn't want to do everything she told me to.  I wanted more of a say in my own life, which seemed to be a theme coming up in lots of areas.

We have learned to compromise with each other.  The mental and physical healing is coming.  I am now searching my heart for my true self.  For my true self now.  In this moment. 

I registered for an adult ballet class.  And I have a photography mentor.  I enjoyed a healing vacation with my husband--and another with my son.  I signed up for NaNoWriMo.  And I am cleaning out my house--each room and closet.  I still have days I don't do what I think I want to do.  But I am learning to ask myself why.  I am starting to listen to my mind, my heart, and my body. 

Stay tuned for more on my journey of discovery.