On the Road Again

I spent a lot of this past summer on the road. I mean – A LOT. And, I’m not even counting the beautiful trip abroad that warrants its own entry.

Late in June we drove from Georgia to Iowa to spend some days finding a place to live here. In that trip, we went from Cedar Rapids to Iowa City to Des Moines to Iowa City to Cedar Rapids. Then back to Georgia. In July, we moved from Georgia to Iowa. In early August, we went from Iowa to Kentucky and back to pick up youngest son. The end of August found me on the road taking middle son to college in Pennsylvania; then, back home and back to work. 

Just today, as a function of my job, I put over two hundred miles on my car driving to two schools and to one of the agency facilities from which I work. 

Yes, I’ve seen lots of roads this summer.  You know what I’ve noticed? 

There’s construction out there. I believe the reports that our infrastructure is crumbling, but while it crumbles there are groups of men and women all over the nation trying to gird it up. Here’s the thing I noticed about construction and driving: I don’t mind waiting in construction traffic if work is actually being done. I understand the need for road cordoned off for no apparent reason until you approach the crew, and you note that the long stretch where nothing was being done is actually a buffer for people who are doing a job I would never want to do much less be able to do: repairing bridges and roads.

The same is true in life. There are times when we cordon off parts of our lives because we need to repair them.  We need to recover from a bad relationship; we quit dating. We need to nurture ourselves after a loss; we don’t go out much. We need to focus energy on building up a skill set; we go to the gym lots or garden lots or write lots. Precious else gets done when we shut down our roads to repair or build ourselves up. Eventually, though, our roads are repaired and they reopen.

The thing that pisses me off is when you’re driving down the road, as I was this past weekend, and the two lane highway becomes a one lane highway. There were cones tall and skinny and short and fat blocking three four-mile stretches on I-80 between Iowa City and Des Moines. I waited for it. 

I knew that workers need their space for safety. I also knew it was the weekend, and it was likely that there weren’t actually any workers, but I would see where they were shoring up the highways and byways that I had used so much this year. 

Nope.

There was no machinery. No workers. No sandy gravelly area where cement or asphalt would soon be poured and smoothed. Nothing. Just a blank, empty lane of a highway. No work being done. No activity whatsoever.

Have you ever met such people? They are shut down and tuned out. Whole avenues in their lives have been blocked off, but there’s no evidence of work being done. Everything appears usable. It seems like it all works.  But they have this shut-off area that may or may not ever reopen.

Such people are traveling through life, but perhaps not traveling well. Maybe they put up the cones for defense.  Maybe they guard their cones jealously, afraid others will trample them. Perhaps they put up the cones so long ago that they forgot all about them. 

I am thankful for the travels I had this summer. I am thankful that middle son drove most of them. (I miss you!) I am thankful for the travels I am having now. But more than all of that, I look around, and I realize while sometimes I’ve had cones up because things were being repaired, there have been time when the road has simply been closed – for no good reason. And, in those instances, I’m thankful for friends and family (you know who you are) who stopped their cars, got out, and helped me reopen those stretches of road.

The metaphor has gone a bit stale at this point, so I’ll leave you with this lyric from Rascal Flatts: “Life is a highway; I wanna ride it all night long. If you’re going my way, I wanna drive it all night long.”

Take down the unnecessary cones. Open up the possibilities. Use both lanes. Keep going.

Home

"Turns out they were right again . . . if it's true home is where the heart is, 

I guess now I'm homeless." 

That lyric has been haunting me over the past two months.  I have felt without a home for a while now.  The transition from Augusta to Cedar Rapids - from Georgia to Iowa - will perhaps be complete when the last box is unpacked (that will take a while!) or maybe once I've been here a year of seasons or maybe there is some other definition of adjustment that I am not thinking of at the moment.  

Change takes time.  I was out of town this weekend, and when the thought of going home flashed across my mind, it was not Cedar Rapids that my mind called up, it was Augusta.  I didn't realize it the first time, but the second time when discussing with my son when we would leave to go home, again, it was a flight image of Augusta that came to mind.

I start a new job tomorrow; when I think of that, an image of my old school grounds scampers through my mind.  I consciously know that I will be working in a different setting at a different set of tasks, but my mind has an ingrained image of work as that old setting.

A quick review: I moved to Augusta to be married.  When that reason no longer existed, I thought of leaving; however different reasons kept me in place. For a long time, I complained - even railed - about Augusta, Georgia, and the South. It was where I lived, but as  location, I never thought of Augusta as home until this past weekend.

In fact, my friends in Augusta can tell you that I have talked about being an outsider or not at home there in varying degrees over the years.  I probably mentioned it most in relation to lack of snow in the winter and high summer temperatures.  Even having lived there fourteen years, when someone asked where I was from, I would say that I lived in Augusta, but I was from Iowa.

Everyone has moments in life when you just feel foreign.  I had it when I first lived in the Soviet Union. The language, the culture, the KGB - it was all foreign.  When I first moved to Augusta, I remember hearing a conversation between a bricklayer and another man; I could not understand one word they were saying.  I asked what language they were speaking.  English.  Huh?  I have a degree in linguistics and have studied languages for the past 25 years.  I was in East Central Georgia, USA, and I could not understand the English being spoken.

It's not just language that will make you feel foreign.  Customs, foods, pace of life, even time zones can play a role on whether people feel comfortable or at home.  People choose their homes or move their homes or stay in their homes for so many reasons.  Whether you have stayed in one place your whole life or moved multiple times, as I have, where, really is your home?

There is a host of aphorisms to define home.  Where our story begins.  There's no place like it.  Where you can be yourself.  Where we love.  Where one starts from.

As I was packing and unpacking boxes and feeling homeless, I started thinking that my home is actually a patchwork.  I have squares from childhood, college, and beyond.  I'm just now realizing that, yes, Augusta is part - an integral part - of that patchwork of home.  Places and people around Augusta will always be home.

My home is
Tara's patio on a breezy Sunday evening, the smells of Shishir's cooking wafting over us;
Liberty's winter solstice party;
the horses that used to run behind our house in Harlem;
Jamie's garage while he grills, Carrie makes her killer onion rings in the kitchen, and we all drink beer;
a chat with Jennifer in the hallway;
our book club with more wine and food than books;
Iris mowing her yard in the mid-day summer heat;
closing Monterrey's with Erin;
the classroom and office and auditorium at my old school;
boot camp and Tracy's "slower than pond water" shouts;
a tour of Franklin's most recent art acquisitions;
Christmas Eve brunch at Katie's;
the purgatorial Kroger parking lot;
appetizers and long talks in Jan's kitchen -
Augusta is part of my home.

I am most in agreement with Tad Williams on the concept of home:  "Never make your home in a place.  Make a home for yourself inside your own head.  You'll find what you  need to furnish it - memory, friends you can trust, love of learning, and other such things.  That way it will go with you wherever you journey."

So, that song may need revision.  Because, if home is where the heart is, I'm not homeless - I have homes everywhere, including with my loves in Augusta.

Flying

The summer just flew by!  So many of us are thinking, if not saying that right now.  Friends who teach in Columbia county, Georgia are back at school today for pre-planning.  Other teacher friends will return next week.  Back to school sales have been happening since July 4.

Perhaps your summer has been and continues to be filled with cookouts, lake trips, and pool time.  You have attended weddings and family reunions.  Maybe time has flown this summer because someone you love is ill or friends have been in dire straits.  Home improvements, jobs, swimming lessons, and summer camps may have filled up your calendar.  Whatever the case, maybe you are like me - just now looking up and thinking "What? It can't be July 31."

When a writer takes a three month hiatus, you might think it is to go on retreat or participate in a workshop.  My unintended break ended up to be to:

 1.  Watch my middle son graduate
 2.  Travel to Italy and Austria
 3.  Resign my job in Georgia
 4.  Pack my house
 5.  Move to Iowa
 6.  Unpack into a new house
 7.  Start a new job
 8. Begin navigating a new town

In a sense, this has been both a retreat and a workshop.  I felt overwhelmed at times by the emotions of packing up fourteen years of life and love.  Saying goodbye to friends to move somewhere new is astonishingly difficult even in the digital age.

No one means to let time fly past, but it does.  Most of us talk about seizing the day, being mindful, making the most of every minute.  And we try.  And sometimes we succeed.

You may be like me - experiencing a big change over the course of a season.  Your season may not be shifting for a while.  Maybe the impending start of school dictates adjustments in your routine.

No matter when life shifts and changes, I am reminded of something I used to say to incoming freshmen:  "Remember that this is not a means to an end.  You don't do high school to get into college to go to grad school to get a good job to make money so that you can retire and grow old and die."

It really is the journey.

CCChanges...

“He who fails to plan is planning to fail.” –Winston Churchill

About ten days ago my middle son embarked on an improved diet.  He has modified his starch choices, upped his leafy greens, and diminished his sugar intake.  It’s a good, healthy modification.  He is the lone vegetarian in our house, and although I have never left him without supper or meatless alternatives, he has undertaken to make his own meals. 

One of the things he immediately realized is that he needed some help from me.  He told me what he was doing, and solicited my support – in the form of buying some groceries we don’t usually have on hand.  Almond milk.  Red quinoa.  He told me what he wanted, and I gave him my card to make the purchases.  He couldn’t find one thing, so he asked if I would try to find it next time I went to the store.  Done.  He thanked me and asked where I had found it.  I told him.  He was grateful.  No problem.  Happy to help.

About the second day of healthy eating plan, he was busy in the kitchen, and I was probably watching him drinking a diet coke.  He turned to me and said, “This isn’t that hard, but it does require planning.” 

Isn’t that how it is with change?  Most changes aren’t hard, but they do require planning.  And, they require support.  And communication.  A couple other situations have arisen in my life this spring that have brought this into focus in other ways.

Over the years in the workplace, I have noticed that those who effect the best changes are those who seek advice.  They consult experts; they examine various possibilities before launching a change – just like my son did his research prior to his modifications.

I have also noticed that positive change – anywhere – almost always involves garnering support from those around you.  If the change will affect the lives of others, it is wisest to ask them for their ideas and support – just as my son did before he began.  Had his proposals been outrageous or unhealthy, I would have objected and offered other ideas to help him achieve his goals.

Help is also a key component to making changes.  One can declare a change, but it is so much easier to make changes with the help of those who care about you at home, at the office, or at school.  If I were to just decree a change in my office, my colleague might go along with me.  But, if I consult her, get her input (especially since she has been there longer than I), consider her suggestions, my change might keep its form and my colleague would be on board with me; or, maybe, just maybe, my change would end up being modified and better for everyone.

One thing I noticed about son’s new meal choices is that while I did help him, he undertook the bulk of the work.  In the last seven days, he has made 20 of 21 meals.  Furthermore, he has cleaned up the preparation and consumption of these meals.  He has even gone above and beyond cleaning up extra from his brother’s and my meals. 

That’s what has really impressed me: he rolled up his sleeves and got to work.  He didn’t sit in the living room and proclaim what he wanted and expect me to hightail it to the store or prepare special foods.  He did not recline, saying, “Well, this will all work out because this is what I want, so get on board, Mom.”  He communicated, planned, and did the work.  If we want changes, we must be willing not only to work for them but also to plan. Just thinking about changing his eating habits won’t get him the results he wants.  Simply declaring a change, asking others for support without any discussion, and blindly hoping that change will work out does not succeed.

We check the forecast and buy seeds before we plant our gardens.  Schools spend five months or more planning graduation ceremonies.  Summer vacations are usually the subject of familial conversations and extensive research.  Offices don’t just hope for the best when the fiscal year turns over. 

Let’s all take a page from my son’s book – at home and at work.  Spring is the season for new beginnings.  Positive change doesn’t happen on its own; those new beginnings can only sprout from good ideas watered with the wisdom and support of those around us.

Bike Riding - It Isn't All Water

When I was in kindergarten or thereabouts, I was taught to ride a bicycle.  I do not write that I learned to ride a bike although I eventually did.  I was taught to ride a bike. I did not particularly have any inclination to learn this skill at the time; I was told I had to. For some reason it was required. I have the idea that my teacher was my dad, but I have a suspicion that my mom was also involved. 

We lived in a small town, and our house was fortuitously across the street from a small church with a small paved parking lot that had a small patch of gravel near it with a small bit of grass beyond that. There was a significant bump riding into the lot from the street.

As I was coerced into learning this skill, a parent held on to the back of the white banana seat of the purple two-wheeler with a white basket decorated with colorful plastic flowers, and as soon as said parent decided I’d mastered balance, parent would let go, and I would promptly fall over.  My recollection is that the parent(s) in question got fed up and told me to stay in the parking lot until I could ride the bike. 

I did.  I don’t remember how long it took, but I learned to balance, to avoid the gravel patch, not to go careening into the grass, and I may have even pulled the lever on the handlebar bell a few times.  Soon, I abandoned the parking lot for the street, up and down, to my friend Melinda’s house.

David Foster Wallace gave the commencement address at Kenyon College in 2005 in which he asserted that our monotonous adult lives all depend upon how we view that monotony.  We have the choice, he asserted, to be annoyed, or we can simply see our daily experiences, like a grocery store or a traffic jam, as “water” – the stuff daily life is made of.  And, he further suggested that we have the choice of how we view the water.  We can view people and the annoyances of life in any number of ways, and it is incumbent upon us to consciously choose how we encounter life. 

True enough.  However, I would go on to say, that one needs to view life, its people, and its situations for what they are; not everything is water.  There is gravel, heavy traffic, and big bumps.  It's not all the same.

Some of life’s experiences involve people making you do things you don’t really want to do.  We all have tasks that we must do on a daily basis at the behest of others.  Riding the bike.  We can whine or bitch about it, but adult life demands that we do some things that we just plain don’t want to do.  If we are lucky, we have parents or mentors who teach us to balance as we are getting started.

As we are riding that daily life bike, we may encounter paved patches.  We can manage quite well on these.  Some of us may find our patches a little small and strike out to find larger patches to navigate.  Still, no matter how big your paved road of daily tasks is, there are always some gravel spots.  Those must be ridden on or around.  The grass beyond must be respected.

Thinking that all the roads we are riding on are the same, might just land us unconscious on the side of the road with a concussion.  Navigating daily adult life is more than just saying “this is water” and making a conscious effort to encounter life thoughtfully.  This navigation also demands that we recognize our surroundings for what they are, keep our balance, and steer as needed. 

Once we get the hang of the riding and navigating, we can, occasionally, ring our handlebar bell.  The analogy is stretching bit, but my point comes down to this:  it’s not all water.  There are basic tasks, annoying people, extreme stresses, and things to be swerved around.  It behooves us to see what we are riding on.  It’s not all water, and if we acknowledge the people or situations for what they really are, then, perhaps we become expert riders.  

SMH at all the BFFs

When we lived in Trenton, my Best Friend Melinda lived a few houses down, and a few more houses down from her lived my arch nemesis: Rhonda.  Capital letters for that title because in those days, we girls had one Best Friend.  It was an honorific saved for the girl to whom you told all your secrets, had over for sleepovers, wrote notes to, ran through the sprinkler with and, if you were lucky, who had a handsome older brother you could secretly crush on. Having a Best Friend was an important social marker – probably THE social marker of girlhood.

One sunny day it came to my attention that Melinda and Rhonda were playing Barbies in Rhonda’s driveway.  Horrified that my Best Friend might be making a new Best Friend, my six-year old brain told me that the best way to deal with this snub was to ride my bike up and down the street past the criminal in order to register my dissatisfaction with my Best Friend.  Of course, if Melinda saw me, she would rush over to play with me. 

Today, on social media, I have noticed a proliferation of BFF posts.  Several acquaintances of mine post pictures proudly proclaiming, “I love my BFF!”  Such pictures are posted more often than I had sleepovers back in Trenton.  Here’s the thing: in each picture – it’s a different person!  My acquaintance + a different person each time = BFF.  Having a BFF in every social media picture seems to be THE social marker of 2014. But, how is it that BFF has devolved to a moniker for everyone?

Best Friend was a title not to be taken lightly.  Add the “Forever” component to that title, and it seems even more exclusive to me. In any case, the idea that everyone in your Face Book photos or who follows you on Pinterest is a BFF has gotten stuck in my craw. These people are not all BFFs; some aren’t even friends.  Let’s face it: we all have “followers” whom we don’t know at all and “friends” whom we struggle to recall.

Let’s strive for precision in language.  Is everyone really your BFF?  Best Friend Forever seems so permanent, and we all know that life ebbs and flows; moves happen, things change, and a Melinda can turn into a Rhonda or the other way round faster than we think.  So, it seems to me that labeling everyone we have a margarita and a selfie with as BFF is a linguistic extreme.  Will the guy who cuts me off in traffic then become a WEF (Worst Enemy Forever)?  

I’d like to think I don’t have any arch nemeses anymore; however, I do have some dear friends.  They are all important to me despite the fact - or perhaps because of the fact -  that I don’t use the BFF label.  A deep breath and a true appreciation for the varied roles that all of our real friends, neighbors, colleagues, and acquaintances play in our lives is more valuable than the latest “Love my BFF” shots because at the end of the day, how we think about and label the people in our lives is actually pretty important.

Airplanes and Drinks

I have been absent.  For a month to the day.  I’d like to say that I’ve been off doing wonderful things and being fascinating, but that would be a stretch of the truth.  I have had some experiences that got me thinking, judging, and thinking about judging.

During my hiatus, I had an airplane trip which included a layover in the early morning.  As I sat in a sports bar-turned-half-breakfast-joint having toast and diet coke, the question occurred to me:  what kind of people drink hard liquor at eight in the morning?  Evidently, quite a few on this particular day.

A ten dollar pint well before noon? Sure!  A low ball of Jack with eggs?  Why not?  Tequila with a breakfast burrito?  Absolutely.  Is this how people live or is all common sense and perception of propriety suspended when one steps into an airport? 

Don’t get me wrong, I’m the first to have a noontime margarita by the pool on a mid-June Saturday or a brunch mimosa on any given Sunday, but hard liquor at eight in the morning seems excessive.

Perhaps the contention of travel must be assuaged by spirits? That might have been the case for Midge –who sat next to me berating her husband loudly.  Annoyance hovered between them just above the carry-on emblazoned with her name.  I don’t know where they were going, but I learned that they just arrived into the airport; they had not been traveling internationally in some irritated fashion, but they were clearly tense.  I wondered if alcohol would be a part of the solution to their tension.  Even if it wasn’t, the combination of breakfast drinks and anger had all the makings of a long day for them.

A couple at the bar were three beers and one shot in each – before nine.  Perhaps they were on the way to a reunion?  A funeral? Or some other highly-charged event so this early morning pub stop helps them escape themselves, the impending crush of family, and the resurrection of childhood’s injustices and favoritisms?

Lest you think I’m sitting in self-righteous judgement, I was reminded of Shannon, Ireland where I arrived at what was – to me – cocktail & snack time, but what was locally known as breakfast time.  I had a pint and a sausage with friends.   No self-recriminations at all.  I might have had a second pint.  Perhaps there was a 47 year-old Irish woman watching our group and wondering much the same that I was wondering last week.

But, that day I was in Charlotte.  Midge and husband have come past security to wait for a delayed flight.  Same for the bar couple. (Yes, I was eavesdropping.)  There were no international semi-rational-time-change-jet-lag excuses.  Do these people go by bars on their ways to work?  Do they take a shot after dropping off the kids at school?  After morning Zumba? 

I want to write “I’m not judging,” but the fact of the matter is I was judging.  Taking a step back, I realize that I don’t care when or what people drink.  Just because I did not deem morning drinking appropriate for myself that morning, does not mean it is wrong.  Extend that into the world, and I think we all might be able to learn a lesson:  just because something isn’t for you, doesn’t make it capital W wrong. 

College major?  Whatever excites you.  Religious beliefs?  Personal choice.  Political inclinations?  Think for yourself.  Children or no?  It’s up to you.  A drink in the morning at the Charlotte airport?  Your call. 

I’d like to think I was judging the effect of travel, airport bars, and freedom, but that’s not the truth.  I was judging the people and their motivations.  It doesn't matter where you are or what you are doing, the personal choices that you make are just that – personal.  After all, once you take off your shoes and get felt up by security, the world truly is your oyster (shooter). 

I think I need to take Rumi’s travel suggestion to heart:  “Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field, I will meet you there.”  Won’t you join me?

Cheers.