A little lonely

Please forgive this evening's ramblings. I process life by writing, and tonight I have lots of emotions in need of processing.

***

First of all, I need to vent. Today has been an odd day. (Or worse yet, perhaps it was normal!) Throughout the day, at least five different people have commented on at least five different occasions about how incredibly short I am.

Gee. Wow. How insightful. I really hadn't noticed.

Walking into ward choir practice this morning, some lady commented on how I looked just like a little kid as I scurried along the sidewalk to church. She went on and on about how the sight of me running made her laugh and brightened up her morning.

So glad to be of service. If anyone else needs a good chuckle at my expense, I'm happy to volunteer.

Walking out of stake choir practice this evening, a group of women were fretting over what colors to wear for our upcoming performance of Handel's "Hallelujah Chorus." Before I know it, they've singled me out. Voice dripping withing concern, one says: "What we're really worried about is you, dear. Perhaps we can get a stool for you to stand on."

Gosh, thanks. Just what I've always wanted. Maybe the conductor can just give me his podium, and we'll all be set.

And thus, I've come to the inevitable conclusion that the only way I'll ever truly belong is to become a Hobbit. (Wink, wink.)

****

As much as I openly joke about my height, there are moments when the joke runs old. Days like today are hard, not because they make me feel small, but because they make me feel lonely.

"Huh?", you say. "Small-talk is harmless conversation. At least people are noticing you. Why would it make you feel lonely?"

But that's just it. Small-talk is evidence that nobody is actually noticing me. Believe it or not, I'm much more than my diminutive stature. These passing comments are alienating because they show how nobody's bothering to look beyond the packaging to the real person who lies beneath.

Have you ever noticed how when you are with a really good friend, you don't even notice what they look like anymore? Short of tall, fat or thin, you see their spirit instead of their physical shell.

I left behind a few such kindred spirits in Illinois--lifelong friends. Here in St. George, I'm still searching for that connection. Until I find it, a hole deep inside feels kind of empty, reminding me that I'm...

Lonely.

****

Recently I've done some reflecting on what's changed to make it more challenging to make friends here in St. George. These are a few of the things I've come up with.

1) It's Mormon Utah.

Now wait a second, before you start bristling, please realize that I'm not dissing the religion, nor the state. I love them both. My Mormon heritage is an inextricable piece of my identity that shapes who I am today and the person I hope to become. Growing up outside of Utah, however, my religious beliefs were always seen as unusual, unique, distinguishing characteristics. I always felt a deep sense of connectedness whenever I met someone else who was LDS because we shared something rare. While these encounters didn't always blossom into friendships, the building blocks were there.

Here in St. George, 70% of the population is LDS. By moving into the religious majority, I've somehow lost some of the personal connectedness that I used to feel. Being "Mormon" is no longer a unique, common bond. Rather, church sometimes seems like a neighborhood block party. Upon meeting someone new, the first question everyone asks is exactly where they live. I'm not sure I enjoy being identified by my home.

2) Our ward congregation is big--really big. Jason and I finally located our names on page 8 of the Sunday School roll. This is challenging for me as one who gets overwhelmed by crowds and prefers small, intimate settings.

3) We're too old to be young, and too young to be old. At the moment, our family kind of falls into an awkward stage of life where we're not transient students anymore, but nobody really views us as established. In general, our neighborhood consists of young families who are renting apartments, and older families with big houses. At the moment, our family doesn't really fit into either of these categories.

4) We've opted to send our daughter to a different school with diverse students. Since we've opted Brooklyn into a dual immersion program, she doesn't attend the same elementary school as the rest of the neighborhood kids.

5) It's not Champaign-Urbana. "Duh," you say. "Aren't you glad?" Geographically, absolutely. But sometimes I miss the ambiance of a university town. I miss the graduate student families. The nebulous "lab" that sucked in half the community. The intellectual bend to conversations, even in the children's section of the library. Recently I was talking to another Mom at the park when her kid used the word "growed." I began to jabber on about this piece of evidence suggesting constructivist grammar in first language acquisition as opposed to B.F. Skinner's ideas about behaviorism or Chomsky's ideas on universal grammar.

As this poor Mom's eyes began to gloss over, I had an ah-hah epiphany. In Champaign-Urbana, such blabber sets you apart as quirky, but kind of cool. In the heat of St. George, you are simply a nerd.

6) It's not Winfield Village. Now, I'm sure all of you living in Winfield are probably scoffing right now. A few months ago and I would have been scoffing with you. However, with a whopping four months of wisdom gleaned from living in the "real world," I wish I'd relished the experience a bit more instead of itching to move on. I miss the friendly chats in the mailroom, the thoughtful conversations in the park, the extemporaneous sympathy in the parking lot when your child throws a tantrum. In short, I miss having friends.

I never realized how much I would value Winfield as a great equalizer. Sure, there were slight moments of envy for three-bedrooms or painted walls, but for the most part, we were all in a similar place. And we were happy with that. Dirt poor, but the experiences brought us together.

****

Even as I write these musings, I realize that there's no turning back. Winfield wasn't magic, Illinois wasn't perfect; rather, these places were made special by the people and the relationships. I trust that with time, patience, and a little courage, we will look back on St. George with the same wishful longing.

So now, I'm looking for wisdom from the many of you who have walked this path before. How have you crossed the bridge between stranger and friend? How do you go about building positive relationships in a new place? Ultimately, how do you fill the void when you feel lonely?