Place

“Maybe you had to leave in order to miss a place; maybe you had to travel to figure out 
how beloved your starting point was.”
― Jodi Picoult, Handle With Care 

One of my favorite memories of the time when my husband and I were still dating is the sight of the Columbus skyline, back-dropped by a magnificent purple and orange sunset. We were driving home from dinner on a highway that had recently re-opened after a long construction period, and it was an unfamiliar view of a city that was both familiar and breath-taking.

Columbus has its stunning views, sure, but I don’t think that is why it struck me. It might have been the first time that I realized how familiar this place was to me, how much it felt like home. I was in my mid-twenties at the time; it was that period of life when every year or two, there was a move. New apartment, new roommates, new chapter. I hadn’t spent more than a year at any one address since leaving my parents’ home for college. My parents’ home was home because of their love and presence, not because of the place. No place felt like home. So to suddenly find that a place felt that way to me was remarkable.

Why? What is home, anyway? Why does one need it? Why does place matter so much?

Place grounds memories. You drive by a restaurant and remember that one time that you had that really fun dinner there with a now-scattered group of friends. That’s the park where you lost that hat you loved so much.  You drive by a street and remember friends who once lived there. You were walking down this street when you had that monumental conversation with someone. There’s the fun little shop you and your sister shop at whenever she comes to visit. Not having these mini-reveries throughout your week is like going through a whole winter missing your gloves.

Also, the mundane details of our lives are filled out by place. Everyone goes to the grocery store. This is what mine looks like (produce is on the right). Need a bakery that makes great vegan cakes? Here are the ones in town I’ve tried. There are the dry-cleaners I’ve known so long I’d trust them with my childhood coat–the one my child is now big enough to wear. Any fellow book lovers who come visiting will be treated–subjected?–to the couple of bookstores I love so much. Even non-physical aspects of place give context to daily life. Radio stations are a perfect example: part of settling into a new place is finding the radio station(s) that suit one’s taste.

Much as I’d like to believe that I am–or was anyway–a global nomad, able to pick up and move and make a new life somewhere else, the truth is that creating a new life in a new place requires painting a whole new backdrop for your life. Finding the stores that carry the things you want.  Finding the hairstylist (can I hear an amen, women?) to whose scissors you’d entrust your hair. Finding the restaurants/pubs/coffee shops where you see yourself becoming a regular. These are the things that make settling into a new place exciting. Yet I think it’s the prospect of knowing those things, going to those places, over and over and for a long time, that ultimately thrills me. And now, the recognition that I’ve done that is what brings such sweetness to this place.

The Modern World and Intuition Preferences Are Not Friends

The Modern World and Intuition Preferences Are Not Friends

It is the end of October in an election year. Like many people, I have spent far more time than I usually do reading political analyses and thinking about candidates, the issues our country is facing, its future direction, etc. No, this is not going to be another political post. It will, however, be an observation of the me who sits before the computer, reading some article or another, when the pressures of the day demand that she be doing something more actively productive (like blogging, perhaps).

One of the oldest personality assessments in the country is called the Myers-Briggs (MBTI). One of the spectra on it is sensing-intuition. This places people on a scale of highly preferring sensing (over-simply: detail-oriented) to highly preferring intuition (seeing the big picture first). I prefer intuition (I), if not highly. An inside joke among MBTI-ers is that someone who prefers “I” will be mid-sentence and suddenly say, “oh, look at that bird,” and their attention is suddenly transported away from the conversation. I can’t count the number of times that happens in a day — but my husband could probably tell you how many times, per conversation, that happens.

What’s my point? Oh yes, the point. Well, this is an age of information overload. Email, internet, magazines, good old TV and radio, billboards, yard signs, bumper stickers. In words and pictures, something is always demanding our attention, screaming at us its importance or desirability. And sure, some things are easy for us to ignore, especially if we don’t have an interest in them.

But what about things that pique our curiosity? Interesting things that aren’t evil or a waste of time per se, but don’t exactly help us accomplish our goals (professionally, spiritually, personally, etc)? (Those who are still students, of course, have the luxury of making the life of the mind a main priority in life.) These topics have some tangential relevance to our lives or our interests, and it is so easy to become distracted by them. For a consumer of words and writing, like yours truly, these things take on an allure that can make us push aside the more mundane yet necessary tasks before us. Result: we fall behind. (And as someone who prefers “J,” on the MBTI, I hate to fall behind. Very much a planner and check-lister, I am.)

So I can bemoan the information overload of modern day life–and then I can discipline myself to stay focused, efficient. In other words, I ought to buck up and carry on.

 But in a reflective moment, I have to ask: do I really want to live a life where I can leap, carefree, down the rabbit hole of words and ideas, with no regard for how long I’ll be there or how far it takes me? Do I want a life where every day starts with a nice hot cup of coffee or tea, and a couple hours to read spiritual reflections, the news, other things which are important but not urgent? A life that allows me to think about and discuss ideas for hours? For a month, maybe two, this would be heaven, in theory. But then the full picture emerges. What would disappear from my days for this to happen? I am a mother of young children and the wife of an amazing man. More time with books and ideas means less time hugging my children, laughing at the frankly hilarious things they say or do, less time trying to make my husband laugh, talking to him and discovering, these many years later, the person he is. It would mean less time caring for all of them, and doing things that matter to me, like my work, service at my church, maintaining friendships.

No, in the end, I choose my life. This is a chapter of life that holds fleeting treasures. My children will not always want so much time with me, and my health will not always be good. I am blessed to have this life, this time, and if the sacrifice I must pay is that a few [tens of dozen of] interesting books and articles have to go unread, then I will pay it, for the reward is priceless.

Family

There is this running theme in my life of which, until recently, I’ve been only peripherally aware. It can be labeled, simply, family. Like the pattern on a grandmother’s tablecloth,it has colored much of my experience and worldview, though I’ve never closely observed it. Think for a minute about family, and this may come to mind:

“Family and friends.”

“Big on family.”

“Family man (or woman).”

“In the family way.”

What do all these phrases conjure?

Perhaps it is my own growing family, or perhaps the dynamics of an ever-growing extended family, but this past year or two have prompted in me a reexamination, or perhaps a new discovery, of the word, “family.” I happen to be one of those people whose family plays a large role in her life and whose holidays consist of large, chaotic gatherings that I wouldn’t trade for the world.

But not everyone is like this: while some people love their families, others dread having to spend holidays with theirs, or at least merely tolerate it. Still others never grew up living with, and sharing genes with, the same people year after year, and don’t consider themselves to have a family. But for those of us lucky enough (lucky in my opinion, anyway) to have had that experience, there is something undeniably strong about the bond that unites us. Is it because the members of our family have seen us in every state and mood?
Perhaps.
Is it because we’ve shared the mundane, from sharing toothpaste to figuring out who does the dishes?
Maybe.
Is it because, no matter what is going on in our life, and no matter what belief we hold, what life we may have committed to, or what phase we may find ourselves passing through, we always have to interact with these people, either daily or at holidays?
Possibly.
It is, perhaps, all of the above. The doubly strong combination of longevity and proximity make family relationships among the deepest many of us experience in life.

And yet, we have no relationships in our lives over which we exert as little choice as we do over who is a member of our family. After all, who would willingly admit a blood relation to that wacky uncle, or that sibling or cousin or grandparent with the really extreme ideas?

Because our family keeps us close to people we might otherwise never have connected with, we hear and see their perspectives on life and its circumstances. Those perspectives may be different from the ones that most of our friends–the people we choose to associate with–hold. That bankruptcy, terminal illness, divorce, job loss, failure, or crisis of faith…you understand them differently when you hear about them from someone inside the situation. Being a part of a family is like having front row tickets to the world’s most dramatic stories: jealousy, love, devastation, triumph, and joy. And, just like from the fictional plays where these dynamics are played out, we obtain wisdom from these new dimensions. Family relationships are rich in part because they give us understanding.

There is another aspect to the foreordained nature of family relationships. With some members of our family, we may be close enough to know about their circumstances but not influence them. With others, we may be close enough to know and to be asked for advice–or to give it anyway. There is a correlation between how close we are to someone and how much we want their decisions to match what we would choose, were we in their shoes. And this is where the heart of the experience lies. We care very much about this person, and we want her to make the “right” decisions in life. Obviously, the advice we give is brilliant and sage and should be followed immediately. Oh, the shock and frustration when it is not heeded! What happens when the ones we love choose to take a different path, one that moves them away from us, either literally or figuratively? I’m not there yet, but I’m sure parents reach this stage, and rather reluctantly. There is a delicate balance between loving a family member and giving him enough space to make his own decisions. Mature is the person who can allow a loved one the space she needs but still work to keep their relationship open, loving, and even close.

Working towards this kind of harmony is a challenge. Understanding a perspective that may not be comfortable to understand is a challenge. And though I cannot claim to have mastered these challenges, I have learned enough in my adult life to know that in the striving, there is a richness and a life that I would not trade for anything.

Dwelling in Possibility

“I dwell in possibility.”
-Emily Dickinson

I’ve always thought this quote was pretty enough, but I hadn’t identified with it until quite recently. Maybe it’s the springtime. The days are getting longer. Trees are budding and birds are singing and people are re-emerging from the layers of winter. It’s a time of graduations and moves. It’s the season of new beginnings.

Whatever it is, it distracts my already easily diverted mind. Suddenly, everything is a possibility.
“Why don’t I be a writer? I think I’ll quit my job and be a writer.”
“Why don’t I lose 30 pounds and become a serious athlete again, a warrior woman?”
“Why don’t we move to the southwest–New Mexico, perhaps?”

We all know people who’ve always known what they want their lives to be. Ever since middle school, they’ve known they wanted to be a teacher. A doctor. A singer. And they go out and live that life, despite difficulties and obstacles. What is it about them that makes them able to stick with their dreams–happily so?

Most of us aren’t like that. Most of us, during that decade after 18, struggle to pare down the possible livelihoods we envisioned for ourselves, and to name what it is we want out of life. We may start down one path, only to realize–better sooner than later–that it is not the path for us.

I’m well past that decade now, but I still ask these questions. When is changing one’s path the right thing to do? (Is there such a thing as “the right thing?”) When is it just being fickle? My dream of being a warrior woman, for example, would be one such frivolity. Much as I’d love to be strong, fast, and lithe, I would not choose to prioritize it enough to give it the hours and sweat that path would demand.

The choice to change paths is made difficult because the options are in fact much more balanced. It’s not, say, a matter of giving up on my current path because it has gotten too difficult or risky. (I am a firm believer that nothing worthwhile is easily gained, anyway.) In fact, one of the things that holds me back from following all those other possibilities is that there is nothing wrong with the path that I’m on. I have a job in which I feel l am doing good, worthy things. (Got to put that law degree, and the hours, sweat and tears that earned it, to some use after all!) The work is challenging but the hours are flexible. I can count on a paycheck and my employer contributes to my retirement (to be banally practical for a moment, and there’s nothing I am if not overly practical). More broadly, I love our home, our city, our friends here. Sure, there are things missing we always wish for–or things we wish were missing–but for the most part, we live content lives.

Neither is it a matter of choosing another path because it is clearly better. I’m not at all sure that I’d live a “better” life were I on a different path. Having never traveled it, I simply can’t know.  But maybe, possibly, it is better.  Maybe.

It may be instead a matter of wondering–always wondering–if I would find more fulfillment on a different path. Is this urge just a case of the grass being greener? Yes, I know no choice would be perfect. But would I be less easily distracted if I was doing something that captivated my interest a little more? Maybe. Or maybe Ms. Dickinson had it right. Maybe this is not a phase. Maybe I too will dwell, always, in possibility. Maybe that’s why spring remains my favorite season.

PS: Two days after I posted this, I saw the following saying, and couldn’t help but add to my earlier musings:

The grass is always greener
where you water it.

Well, yes, there’s much value in making your own happiness no matter what path you find yourself on, but if you’re privileged enough to have a choice in paths, what then?

Waves on my toes

Why do I want to write? Is it to make sense of the inspirations, insights, and demons that tumble through my mind each day? Is it a childish attempt to mimic the beauty that I’ve enjoyed as a reader of true writers? I’m not sure, but it’s an urge that has preoccupied me for months, and it has only grown with time.
So today I will start. Even the prospect of taking the first step thrills me. And frightens me. What can I possibly have to say that’s worth reading? And if and when I share my writing, will I have the skin to tolerate criticisms of it? For writing is not an objective thing. Writing fiction most certainly is not, and nonfiction may not be too different.  The kind of writing I want to start with is a door into my mind: my memories, my relationships, my perceptions, my beliefs. It exposes my inner life to the outer world. And even when it does not, some will believe that it does, and will misconstrue what I have written. But the fear of this is only the first such window into my thoughts. Revelation #1: Mariam does not like misunderstandings of any sort. On the other hand, Mariam loves clear communication, understanding, and world peace.
Misconstructions are unfortunate; disagreements with, or criticisms of, what I have actually said are altogether different. They challenge me to own who I am. The best piece of advice I ever received was in the third grade. My teacher’s wife, who used to invite us to lunch once a week, gave us this gem one day: just be yourself. Simple. Cliché even. But this advice has remained with me. As I see it, being myself—becoming myself—is growing up. At some point in youth, each of us becomes painfully aware of our weaknesses where others are strong, our inabilities where others are talented. And we spend a good part of our latter childhood (those regrettable years sterilely referred to as adolescence) disguising the ways in which we fall short. We spend no comparable amount of time or effort strengthening our gifts. And we all have them. I firmly believe that.  We just forget about them sometimes, that’s all. So what are you? Perceptive? Funny? Analytical? Kind at any cost? Able to talk to anyone? Athletic? Patient? Smart? Own it!
As I have grown older, life has taught me, repeatedly, but often gently, that it brings us contentment when we become more ourselves; when we embrace our gifts and let drift the hopes of becoming someone we are not. We mature also when we face our weaknesses and our shortcomings. Perhaps a temper, or extreme shyness, or an old shame might come to mind. When we begin to work on these things rather than trying to hide them or defend them, it is one way in which we grow. It is one way in which I can grow.
So perhaps this is why I write. Perhaps words are my chosen vehicle for becoming who I was made to be. Or perhaps, after all, being a writer is someone else’s gift, one I need to let pass.