The Essence of Home

Can you feel at home in two different places? 

We have now lived in our house in Bristol, Rhode Island, longer than we lived in our house on Rayle Place in Bloomington, Indiana.  Because we didn’t have the foundation of being surrounded by family, friends, and familiarity (you’re pretty familiar with a place if you have had time to earn four degrees from the local university), it’s taken awhile for Rhode Island to feel like home.  We don’t have the benefit of children to connect us with the local Bristol community through meeting other parents and spending time in schools and other activities.  Both of us work outside Bristol as well.  Plus, as Rhode Islanders know, Bristol can be an insular community.  Periodically, arguments pop up in the local paper about who can call herself or himself a Bristolian, and it’s about how many generations your family has been there, not how many years you yourself have lived there.  In other words, Nels and I will never be Bristolians. 

At the same time, we have connected to the community in various ways; Nels in his Fantasy Football League and me with Bristol Yoga Studio, and then of course through wonderful neighbors like the Kallmans and friendly chats with people on the East Bay Bike Path.  Coupled with friends from Rhode Island College, after eight years, along with fixing up the house so it reflects who we are, the place feels more and more like home.  

When we come back to Bloomington, as we did last week, it feels like a time warp.  Conversations and relationships pick up where they left off, as if the conversation itself is ongoing, even if the participants stepped out for months or years.  I haven’t seen my first mentor and only principal Chuck in a little over a year, but we sat in the back of a boat on Lake Lemon while our friend Sarah gave us a tour and talked about everything from educational policy to Dexter to relationships with parents seamlessly. Up front, our other three friends had their own conversation and occasionally jumped into ours.  I wasn’t the outlier or visitor; I was just one of five, as Chuck put it, kindred spirits.

Something similar happened at the softball field the next night, although I will hasten to say that it’s not as if everything and everybody stayed the same, as if frozen in time.  The guys are grayer, the women have more laugh lines (my sister-in-law says women age better than men these days.  Sorry, guys).  Individuals have changed jobs and life trajectories.  Parents have died, kids have been born, and the kids who were in elementary school are now in college or out on their own.  So even though the conversations may have the same tenor, they differ slightly in content.  Regardless, the similarities were more striking than the changes.          

When we first moved to Bristol, I would go on walks around the town, looking at the houses from the 18^th and 19^th centuries, and marvel at how familiar it felt.  After I found out many of the homes were built by merchants and captains who benefited from the slave trade (Bristol had several rum distilleries and was thus part of the Triangle Trade), I lost my romantic viewpoint, but I bet I could walk into the old colonials and Victorians and the smell and feel would resonate.  Maybe it’s a sense of déjà vu (as David Crosby sings: “We have all been here before”).  Whatever it is, I appreciate the hardware store owners who helped us figure out what tools we needed for de-wallpapering and painting, the postman who gives out lollipops, the librarian who recommends books based on our check-out record, and being able to walk to the yoga studio or coffee shop if I choose.

It’s also about routines.  In Bloomington, even if we feel accepted, we are still guests.  In Bristol, I can settle back into my daily routines: write, run, work, eat, rub Mr. Spock’s belly, hang out.  This also feels like home, especially when I connect back with friends and colleagues, whether they knew I left or not.  

     

 Home is not necessarily about where you grew up.  Home is where you feel peace and belonging and a sense of security.  A sense of rightness with the place and the people.  Being with people who get you—and still like you—makes a place home. 

Adversity and Redemption

When it comes to challenge and adversity, I’m not a huge fan.  I take seriously the comforts of time and space, knowing they are privileges of culture, class, and education.  Plus not having kids.  

Perhaps running races doesn’t seem like the best way to avoid adversity, but it’s possible to make it feel less challenging.  One is by preparation.  In August, once the gasping humidity of July was over, 30 mile weeks became 40 mile weeks, hills were trotted up instead of walked, and occasional trips to the high school track started happening.  But preparation is not just about training.  It’s about carefully choosing clothes the night before a big race, bringing alternative shirts and socks in case conditions should change, and snacks and drinks are packed for before, during, and after the race.  For longer races, a lot of thought goes into what to wear and what to eat and drink.  Not doing so leads to chafing and/or bonking, the twin banes of distance running.    

The Surftown half-marathon seemed like a good time to open up the ol’ dusty box of adversity I had been avoiding.  I imagined feeling the pain and drain and still going, even up dastardly Watch Hill at mile 10, trucking on through the finish line, hot on the heels of the two-hour pace group.  It was time, I decided, to move away from safety and comfort and to learn that it wasn’t really pain I was feeling, merely sensation.  Yoga teachers advise you to take a pose until you feel sensation, but not pain.  Running coaches have the opposite approach, saying things like, “Pain is weakness leaving the body.”  I figured I would take the middle path, and show myself that it wasn’t really pain I was feeling, merely sensation.  That is, unless I broke an ankle or something.  “Heh, heh,” I thought. “I’ll show myself what I can do.  Think how much energy and power I’ll have, even if I’m only able to crawl back to the car!”

Alas, the universe had something else in mind.  It saw my preparation for adversity and laughed loud and long. 

We got to Misquamicut Beach 45 minutes early, which seemed pretty good until I saw the huge, rapidly filling parking lot after dropping off Nels to go find his pace group buddies.  As I walked to the check-in tent, I thought about getting in the bathroom line right away, as we had just spent an hour in the car after two coffees and plenty of water.  I decided no, better to get my race bib first.  Mistake #1.  I could not get my bib, because I didn’t bring a photo ID.  The woman resisted my pleas, which rapidly turned to incredulity mixed with fury.  I explained about being parked a mile away.  I also said that nobody would want to run as me.  She would have nothing of it. 

I had to run a mile back to the car, and then a mile back, just to get my bleeping driver’s license so I could wear a bleeping bib to run a bleeping 13.1 mile race.  I tore back through the fall festival, ignoring the pygmy goats, warning all incoming runners that they would need their ID’s.  I zipped through the parking lot, dodging cars and runners who had obviously known that running a race was like boarding an airplane.  What was next, searching my New Balance capris for sharp objects?

I ran all the way back, license in hand, finally getting the bib and checking my stuff into baggage claim.  Luckily, I still had a water bottle and a gel tucked into my capris.  I got into the 20 person long port-a-pottie line, ready to take my gel and finish my water, because by now I really had to pee, and it was 10 minutes before the race was to begin.  The announcer’s calls were more and more urgent—“Stay out of the road! Five minutes to race time!” and I started to panic a bit, along with my fellow runners.  I reached back to take my gel, and it was gone.  Are you bleeping kidding me?  So I was about to start the race late, having already run two miles, with no nutrition besides one bar and one banana over an hour ago.  Clearly, the two-hour pace group would be running without me. 

Those first five miles, I was pissed at everyone and everything.  They were out of Gatorade at the first water stop.  The roads were narrow, bumpy, and crowded as people jockeyed for space.  A woman with long arms connected by giant elbows was swinging them back and forth like she was sawing something.  A couple with headphones ran side by side, blocking anybody who wanted to go around them.  Back in kindergarten, I learned about the value of giving people space due to a blond-haired girl named Jenny who happened to be a biter.  These folks had obviously not met her.

I felt terrible about how I dealt with adversity—being mean to the volunteer, cussing in front of Nels’ pace group, complaining in the bathroom line.  Even when I thought I was ready for adversity, because it came in an unexpected package, I handled it poorly.  Then I began noticing what was going on around me.  The volunteers and spectators were supportive.  The sky was blue, breeze light, sun warm.  The runners were cheerful, respectful, and nobody tried to bite me. 

My regular running mantras did not suffice in this situation, so I searched for a new one, realizing how grateful I was to have the ability and desire to run this race, even if I was clearly not going to meet my goal of two hours.  My mantra became “thank you.”  The universe was not testing me out of nastiness or spite, after all.  Instead, it was offering me the opportunity to appreciate what I can do when I don’t obsess about imaginary obstacles. 

And that’s what adversity is.  Imaginary.  My attempt to gird my loins was based on the faulty assumption that I could control what happens, an assumption I make often.  I have other imaginary adversaries and adversities, mostly related to my ego, who likes everything to be predictable and according to its design.  There’s a bigger design out there, though.  Understanding and accepting that, especially when there is pain or fear involved, is not easy, but I hope today’s 2:06:59 run, smiling for 8.1 miles of it, will get me a little closer.          

        

Springsteen and the Eagles: Present and Alive

They’re here to hear their favorite songs.  But what they really pay you for is to be as present and alive as you can be.

            Bruce Springsteen

From what I have read, Bruce Springsteen shows are famous for the unexpected.  Sometimes, according to the article by David Fricke in a recent Rolling Stone, the band doesn’t even know what is coming next until they hear the chords from Springsteen’s guitar, or he makes a specific motion with his hands. 

This is in contrast to the Eagles, who pretty much plan every note and nuance of a live performance.  The band is a well-oiled machine, rehearsed and ready to give the crowd what they want, along with some things the band thinks they should want.

While their respective eras overlap some, especially now in their golden years, the Eagles’ best work (besides “Hole in the World” from 2003—featuring some of the best harmonies in rock outside of CSN), was in the 1970’s and Springsteen’s was in the 1980’s (with the exception of The Rising album in 2002).  Interestingly, both bands’ later hit records were in response to the attacks of September 11, 2001, the 12^th anniversary being just this last week.  Both bands are responsive to the cultural, political, and economic zeitgeist of the times.  I respect that.  I want that.  While I appreciated Prince’s 1999 as much as today’s kids value Robin Thicke’s Blurred Lines, that’s not the music I go back to, or that sustains me.  I want music with heft, with meaning.  Springsteen and the Eagles both deliver, even when they are singing about girls in flatbed Fords or pink Cadillacs.

Now, I’ve never seen Springsteen with the E-Street Band, although we were front row center for a solo acoustic tour, which was one of the best performances I’ve ever seen.  Nor have I seen the Eagles.  While I’m attracted to the idea of Springsteen putting together a different show every night, with the band being “present and alive,” four hours of music sounds exhausting.  At the same time, though, we have, on more than one occasion, turned down the opportunity to spend $150 per ticket to see the Eagles.  Why?  Because we are not going to see anything we can’t appreciate on the record. 

For me, the Eagles symbolize comfort.  The Eagles Greatest Hits Volume 1 was the first CD I ever bought.  When I was away at college, I sang to “Peaceful Easy Feeling” at the top of my lungs and felt less lonely.  When I was ready to leave a boyfriend, I belted “Already Gone” and fucking meant every single word.  Don Henley once disparaged those songs as vapid, but perhaps vapidity is in the eye of the beholder.  He also said that he hopes the Eagles are remembered for the work they put in, and I think that’s as valuable as Springsteen committing to the moment in every single show. 

The Eagles offer familiarity and professionalism.  Bruce Springsteen and the E-Street Band offer passion and living in the moment.  As a teacher and student, I appreciate both in instructors.  As an audience member, I appreciate both in performers.  When an audience comes to see the Eagles, they know what they are getting, and they paid a hefty sum for it.  Same with Springsteen—they know they don’t know what they are getting, and they have reconciled themselves to that simply by showing up.  

In our lives, in everyday interactions and in relationships where we have specific agendas, we may seek polish over risk-taking or vice versa.  Most of us probably lean one way or the other, but what if we opened up ourselves to appreciate whatever is presented?  Maybe it’s not so much the performer or teacher that matters, but our reaction.  If, as students, audience members, or just participants in a conversation, we don’t come in with certain expectations, perhaps we are opening ourselves up to a whole new kind of magic—the kind that comes with being present and alive.       

You're Almost There

One common feature of road races are course marshals, who keep you going in the right direction, usually offering support and encouragement along the way.  I found my first and only time as a course marshal at the Cox marathon this spring to be rewarding.  Mile 11 was my post, and I was there for a good three hours, from the swiftest runners to the people who were suffering so much I wondered if they would make it to the finish line.  I enjoyed offering encouragement of the boisterous and loud variety, and was surprised that so many runners thanked me.  I wanted to thank them instead, for showing the courage and persistence it takes to run long distances.

As a runner, it’s inspiring to be in the pack at the starting line and see so many people with different approaches and expectations; but marshals get to see the fast, the slow, and the painful.  Like anybody else, I admire the physical grace of the individuals who run efficiently and easefully, as if they were meant to be loping across the plains.  But I really applaud the people for whom running is a considerable emotional, spiritual, and physical effort.  To train for a race, especially a half-marathon or marathon, requires stamina and fierce determination for anyone, but especially for those of us whose physical gifts are not in the running category.  As John Bingham, the self-described “Penguin” says, it’s not getting to the finish line that’s the achievement; it’s showing up at the start.      

That’s probably why it bugs me when marshals say “you’re almost there” when I’m clearly not even close to “there,” presuming they are referring to the finish line.  Besides, “almost there” has different connotations, depending on the context and the person.  If someone says that at the 2.5 mile mark, for example, of a 5K (3.1 miles), the amount of effort it takes to shift from fourth to fifth gear means that last half mile feels like it’s halfway across the country, and thus not anywhere close to “there.”  If it’s a longer race, that last half mile means you are just trying to survive, trying to summon up some dignity by smoothing out your grimace, wiping the salt and snot from your crusted face, and trying not to visibly limp for the spectators and cameras at the finish.

Today on the bike path, I was out for a leisurely run on a sunny, cool, and breezy fall day.  Because I had gotten up late, the path was a lot busier than usual.  A couple of casual bikers passed me—and I know they were casual because they were not wearing helmets, colorful shirts or bike shorts—and the guy in the Red Sox cap turned around and said, “You’re almost there.”  Whaaat?  Dude, I am 3.2 miles into an eight mile run.  I am NOT almost there, and how do you even know where my there is?   I don’t even care about there, because I’m enjoying here so much.  So take your there and shove it.  Up there.

So where is there?  Now, in a race, there usually refers to a finish line.  On a road trip, there is usually a pre-determined destination, hopefully with a swimming pool for the kids and a mini-bar for the grownups.  But otherwise, who knows where there actually is?  And is it just a fantasy, a Shangri-La of when I’ve graduated college/gotten married/gotten a real job/bought a house/kid goes to college that you will have determined to have reach there? 

“There” is a moving target at best, a chimera at worst.  There is the adage about journeys versus the destination, but life seems to be more fluid than that.  It’s almost like when we think we have reached that magical there, it vanishes in a puff of smoke, and we are meant to set out again, perhaps blindly, perhaps with guidance, onto another path, seeking yet another there. Maybe there is no destination, and if there is one, maybe it’s just a hollow promise.

“There” implies a finality, a sense of closure or ending.  When we talk about closure, we usually mean that we have set aside some issue or relationship with a sense of done-and-over-with.  But I am not sure anything is ever final.  We carry the vestiges of past relationships and experiences in our bodies, hearts, and minds whether we want to or not.  We may earn a degree or a certificate, but realize that training is ongoing.  We may get married, but realize that relationships are still work.  We may get a promotion, but realize that responsibilities and expectations have grown as well.  We may retire, but realize that for life to be meaningful, there has to be more than golf, book clubs, and playing bridge on the computer.   And these are markers of privilege.  How do the non-privileged know where their theres are?   

I’m not sure I want to get there, wherever there is.  For sure, I’m ready to be done with certain emotions, people, and experiences.  But the here is so much more important than the there, even when we are trained to think otherwise.