Homecoming
A Tin Man Finds His Place
I once was the Tin Man, like the heavy metal cat in the Wizard of Oz. I was alive, but my heart had gotten lost. Inside me felt like an empty shell, echoes of love reverberating off metallic walls, distant memories of something never quite realized, of a life never truly lived, just somewhat fantasized amidst smoky possibilities and squandered opportunities
Like the Tin Man, I was rescued from my solitary existence in the woods by a merry band of wanderers, all in search of lost pieces of themselves. They picked me up off the ground, oiled my joints and my lips so I could walk and talk, then skipped with me on down a yellow brick road, the road to Oz.
The first thing to go was my overwhelming sense of loneliness. Who could feel alone with such friends? While I still thought I had no love to give in return, I did have a kindly disposition (when my joints didn’t need oiled!), and a gratitude for having been found and rescued by these crazy cats. I learned to be willing to do whatever I could to lighten their loads, to pick them up whenever they fell. I didn’t know, then, that that was love. I thought it had to come from the heart, and I truly believed I didn’t have that organ. I just played the part.
We all fell a lot. We had no road map, no google maps, telling us which way it was to Oz. We fended off flying monkeys, the kind that loved to land on our backs to try to carry us off into the sky with them, to get us high and away from all of this. Some would get carried off, but the rest of us stayed the course, kept our feet upon the path, our longing for lost pieces of ourselves driving us, propelling us forward, ever in search of the elusive Oz.
Witches awaited around dark, wooded corners to pounce. Wizards directed us on crazy pursuits of meaningless baubles that had nothing to do with what we sought. We followed those pursuits, because we were willing to do whatever it took. Some of us recorded the journey as we went, wanting only to leave behind a set of directions for those who came after.
We thought about those who had gone before us, those poor unfortunate ones who never made it to Oz, who fell by the way, whose skeletons we stepped over on the way, whose stories we heard of being carried off by those scary flying monkeys. Together, we continued on our journey, ever hopeful of finding Oz.
One of our crazy crew discovered a stunning truth. There was no Oz “out there”, no Emerald City shining brightly in the distance, to satisfy our every desire, our every dream. That, too, was but a fantasy, one that kept us from the true journey, the journey that could not be found at the end of a yellow brick road, but only down a flight of steps that led within.
There were 12 of them. The first could only be taken as one lost all hope of ever reaching the Emerald City, that perfect place off in the distance, shining oh so brightly but ever remaining off in the distance. Once that first step had been taken, a light could be seen, not out there, but down inside as you ever so carefully, and tentatively, took that second step down, following not the words of a mighty and fearful wizard, but of a much more quiet and subtle voice from deep within.
You’d heard others whisper of such a place, but never believed it was a place for you. It wasn’t bright and shiny enough, not like Oz. It didn’t promise “no pain, no trauma, no worries”. It was simply warm and welcoming, as you finally took that second step and considered taking just one more, maybe that one would bring Oz to your doorstep. Instead, you began to lose that yearning for Oz, drawn by the warmth, the glow within, the first whiff of a familiar scent — the smells of home.
Not what you were expecting to find, but enough of a sensation to lead your feet to taking that third step, committing to continuing on this journey down inside, to letting go of the fantasies and dreams of being pampered in the salons of Oz. Each step of the way, you wrote it all down. You wanted the next ones to find the way, without all the falls and the detours into unfamiliar woods. You wrote about the witches, and how a simple glass of water could melt them right away. You wrote about the wizards, how their lies could lead one on a wild goose chase, and how to follow, instead, that still small voice within.
Then, it was time to write some more, only now, this was for you. This was to document your own personal journey, to catalogue the missteps, to strip away the fantasy to allow the True Self within to emerge.
This Tin Man learned that there was, indeed, a heart down in there, not lost or missing but buried deep within the lies, deceits and fears that had kept him from feeling its beat. As I wrote, the aforementioned defects became revealed for what they were — ways to avoid feeling my life. The next five steps came in order as these shortcomings slowly left my once empty shell, and made room for my heart to beat a little louder, a little clearer. I learned to navigate the journey on my own.
While I was so focused on my own journey within, I lost track of my fellow travelers for awhile, my merry band of misfits, but kept going, because I knew the truth was within, not out there, and I didn’t think I could take another wrong turn, another battle with flying monkeys, another witch writing dire predictions across the sky of my life. I just couldn’t do it.
I forgot about the things we wrote early on in that journey, and focused instead on writing about my own journey within. I was alive, with a heart beating deep within, and a joy of living each day a dream I never even knew I had, fulfilled and filling me with all of the things I’d ever desired, not even realizing I had desired them, until they came to pass, and my life was full. So full.
It was fascinating to me, as I perfected the turn of the phrase and mastered a storytelling style that turned heads and became widely read. But something gnawed at me this whole time. What about my old friends? What about that merry band of wanderers who’d picked me up, oiled my parts, and walked with me, skipped with me down that road. So what if it was a slightly misguided journey — they were there for me then. What if they needed me now?
I struggled to find them, but fear of getting lost again kept me from really, truly looking. I’d grown comfortable in my Tin Man shell, I had a heart, I felt its beat, I didn’t need a bunch of crazy cats to oil my parts. I’d learned to do it myself.
But, what about that other Tin Man, out there in the woods, stuck inside a bunch of rusted parts, left to rust in the rain without so much as a drop of oil to loosen him up. Who was going to find and oil him, help him find a way out of those scary woods? Oh, there were plenty of others wandering around out there — they would do it. Why risk it?
Eventually, I couldn’t take another day of the good life. Each day, I found it growing more and more empty. There were only so many times I could go to Disney World, or take a 3 week luxury cruise to exotic places, and find it fulfilling. It began to lose its charm. It began to feel like Oz — like I finally believed in that place, and had found myself there, and proven that you COULD enjoy it all.
But, so what? What about the emptiness I still felt, deep within? I ventured back into the woods. That is, after all, where a Tin Man belongs. Where’s he going to swing his axe, if no trees to fell are anywhere to be found? I discovered others there, some who were doing just fine without me, but a few who I could help on their journey within.
They had a special kind of oil, the kind that could only be received when a Tin Man gave. I learned to give — to give back. The special oil brought back to life parts of me I’d forgotten all about.
In all those years I’d wandered out in the world on my own, I’d never gotten to hear their gratitude for the notes we’d left behind. Now, back in the woods, I realized we’d done alright with those notes. Many had found their way out of the dark woods by simply following our old notes. Many had discovered new and interesting ways to get out of there, and written some notes of their own. It was only then that I realized a Tin Man out of his woods is like a fish out of water. He needs those woods to truly feel alive.
They are his home. This Tin Man is so grateful to be back where he belongs.
