You can’t go home again….

I have to disagree. Wholeheartedly.

Last weekend, I participated in an arts festival. Not just any arts festival, the arts festival in my childhood hometown- the place that made me, well, me.

Let me back up. “ART Festivals” are nerve wracking for me in any regard. Craft fairs? No sweat. Pop-ups? Easy peasy. Art festivals? Terrifying. You see, I suffer from chronic, overwhelming imposter syndrome. Faced with a whole event filled with other artists? I immediately fall prey to the “they clearly accepted me by mistake” demons.

So, combine this with an event in a small town where you know A LOT of folks, it feels like a recipe for disaster. Which is why I avoided it for the better part of the last 30 years. Until last March. When someone did that thing everyone tells you won’t happen. Someone running said art festival emailed me-and asked me to participate. Yikes.

Woodstock is an idyllic place. Quintessential Vermont. Beautiful. Small town. Real maple syrup and real New England clam chowder. It was an incredible place to grow up. My parents gave us the greatest gift in moving us there from New York. For city kids it was a dream come true. We grew up with all the things in the Hallmark movie. Cows and fall leaves, horse drawn sleigh rides (for real), getting out of school early to ski. Yes, please. I learned to paint here. From real live artists. I excelled. Got into a great college. An over achiever. Big things were coming for me. Until I wasn’t and I didn’t.

Woodstock is the town of my greatest achievements and my greatest failures. My high highs and my low lows. The most joyful moments have happened there~and my most heartbreaking losses.

So for 30 plus years I’ve hidden. Carefully orchestrated visits to avoid any unwelcome inquiries. Carefully selected where I’ve shown up, or not, to avoid unexpected encounters for which I’d need to answer for my failure, or unrealized potential, or both. Built a thick skin, and highly tuned reflexes to defend myself.

If you’ve followed me for any time at all you know I’ve made huge changes in my life and career to follow my dreams. Huge risks for my family, marriage and self. I’ve finally become who I am. It only took 54 years.

So when the email came, in a moment of impulsive confidence, I replied. “I’d love to!” I’d love to? What was I thinking? I’d spent so much time hiding, only to agree to the most visible of events (on the Green, for goodness sake!) where I’d have no control, no way to duck around a corner. I’d be exposed. Forget about the art part. I’d just agreed to basically, in my mind, to stand naked in the middle of town. Yeesh.

But you know what? I set up my tent next to “real” artists. Cried a little. Friends showed up for me. Sold a lot of art. Cried again. Reconnected with my Vermont family. Cried more. Forgave myself. Sobbed

And most of all, for the first time since I left 30 years ago, I felt at home. And it was just as if I never left.