Upon my arrival to the Old World, I've been on the hunt for two things: a set of flannel sheets and a coffee grinder. Turns out this quest (which would be quite easy and inexpensive in the New World) is not for the faint of heart. Now I understand things are different on this island than they are in the States - it is a different country, afterall. Still, I wasn't prepared for what an arduous task this would be. It seems that this is a land of opposites; finding flannel sheets in England is much like finding duvet covers in America - it's possible...they're available...just not incredibly common. While in England, duvet covers abound, but flannel sheets - not so much. And as for the coffee grinder? Well, turns out that's pretty much like searching fo the Holy Grail and I've had to come to terms with the fact that I may never again own one, and may have to use a mallet instead.
This story may seem insignificant and I admit that the objects of my quest are, in the larger picture, just that. But there's an underlying story that I think has some significance, one that I've been spending quite a lot of time giving thought to in the past few weeks; what it is to face change. Apparently there are a few things that stress us unlike anything else: losing a job, the death of a loved one, and moving. Moving! Isn't it amazing that moving is placed on the same emotional level as death? But maybe not. I realize I'm seasoned in this area; having made several long distance moves since I was a very young girl so I may be more calloused than most when it comes to the topic, because it's just been how I've always lived my life. However, I know lots of people who've moved very few times in their lives and their moves typically take place in the same town, certainly the same state. Not many people have moved a distance of 1,000 miles or more away from where they grew up. When I take a minute to put myself in their shoes and think about the my earliest memories of moving I empathize with how difficult it is for some people and how it can be placed on par with losing a job or loved one. And to be honest, my recent travels have challanged my conceptions of being a seasoned mover and what it is to acclamate to big life changes.
Coffee. Flannel sheets. These are simple pleasures. And not having them as readily at my fingertips as I'm used to has caused me to think about other simple pleasures - things that I've never given much thought to in the past but are now magnified by their very absence; things that have made this transition more of a challenge than I've ever experienced in the many moves I've made through my life. Like knowing (automatwithout having to think about it) which direction to look when crossing the street and being able to quickly count change. Or quartered butter, iced tea, half & half, Dairy Queen, baseball, classic rock stations. Simple pleasures - threads, easily taken for granted, which make up the fabric of our lives.
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Yesterday evening Dave and I took our dog, Butler, on a walk in one of the two parks within walking distance of our home. It was a lovely evening - warm and still. We were walking in the quieter of the two parks and as we were strolling along I looked up at the trees into the blue sky just beyond the vibrant, green leaves. I closed my eyes, took in a deep breath and let it out very slowing thinking how at that moment I felt absolutely peaceful and complete. To myself, I reflected how I always feel this way while in nature and wondered if it's a universal human emotion - if it's because it's so close to our ancestral roots, if it's because it's how we're meant to live?
These thoughts quickly took me to the book I'm currently reading called March, by Geraldine Brooks. It is a fictional account of a man named Mr. March, the father from the novel Little Women, while he's away serving in the Civil War. Like a fine piece of dark chocolate - rich with a hint of bitterness - I want to savour each moment, which means I've not gotten very far into the book. Even so, it has been quite insightful and last night's walk seemed to mirror a line from the book; when reflecting upon a heart-wrenching event of his early adulthood, and dissatisfied with the conventional methods offered by organized institutions for finding God, Mr. March wrote, "To me, the divine is that immanence which is apparent in the great glories of Nature and in the small kindnesses of the human heart." Mmmm..."the great glories of Nature." Indeed it is Nature which feeds the great ball of light in my chest and it's from that place I find hope, faith and happiness. It feels like a reclusive journey in some ways - a feeling that must be felt alone. Still, it's nice to be in the company of those you love the most when feeling such things. And just now I'm reminded of a line from a poem Bob Dylan wrote for Woody Guthrie which I will end today's blog with: "And where do you look for this hope that yer seekin' Where do you look for this lamp that's a-burnin' Where do you look for this oil well gushin' Where do you look for this candle that's glowin' Where do you look for this hope that you know is there And out there somewhere And your feet can only walk down two kinds of roads Your eyes can only look through two kinds of windows Your nose can only smell two kinds of hallways You can touch and twist And turn two kinds of doorknobs You can either go to the church of your choice Or you can go to Brooklyn State Hospital And though it's only my opinion I may be right or wrong You'll find them both In the Grand Canyon At sundown" -excerpt from Last Thoughts on Woody Guthrie Wow. My first blog. A thing to be celebrated, I'm sure. Easy enough to say before writing anything of any significance - or content for that matter.
Stalling. I used to work at a summer camp in upstate Michigan. At this moment my mind is being transported back to a specific event that takes place every year early in the summer before the kids arrive. Before much of our training even begins. The swim test. It's the first or second week of June - I'm standing in my bathing suit and have shed my towel. Tiny bumps exaggerate the place where fine hairs reside on my skin. I look down at the water and all I can think is, "Seriously - this has to take place now? At this early hour? Really? God, I really have to do this, don't I?" And I'm thinking this not because I loathe swimming - quite the opposite...I really love being in and by the water. But inevitably (and I think fate plays some cosmic role in this matter), every year at swim test time, the sky is more gray (and often sending down intermittent rain drops that come straight from the coldest realms of the stratoshpere), the temperature more chilled and the lake more inhospitable than any other time of the season. Sigh. So there I stand, looking at the water, knowing I need to just get in, but lacking the proper ambition to do it and every time I think my feet are ready to release themselves from the dock, an invisible force keeps them locked into place. Somehow - and after countless minutes of anxiety and wanting to stick my head in the sand - I face the fact that I have to get in the water. I need to stop being a baby. And get involved. Much like writing this blog. So I sit here, facing my laptop with the same sort of dread, anxiously anticipating what it'll feel like to jump in, knowing that once I do, it'll be no big deal. And once you're in - you find the wonderful surprise that the lake is actually warmer than the air. So, while I've just spend my alotment of characters typing about a years-old moment in my life that has little to do with who I am or what I do as an artist, it's been a suprisingly inviting and comfortable experience. I think I could get used to this. |
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