Wednesday, October 26, 2016

Being Mr. Bucket

Kristopher Avila/Flickr
The other night, while screwing the cap back on to the toothpaste I had an epiphany.

I am Mr. Bucket.

Poor Mr. Bucket,as you might recall from "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory," is the sole provider for a family of seven, including two sets of bedridden parents, a wife and one soulful little boy.

"He worked in a toothpaste factory, where he sat all day long at a bench and screwed the little caps on to the tops of the tubes of toothpaste after the tubes had been filled."

OK fine. I'm not the man of the house. I'm not caring for two sets of elderly, invalid parents. I don't have a son. And I don't work in a toothpaste factory (though I might argue that working in the content marketing factory is no less tedious).

Mr. Bucket is representative of so many parents at a certain stage of life. The endless cycle of doing in order to provide. Feeling swallowed by the mountain of toothpaste caps and the mountain of toothpaste tubes (the laundry, the bills, the dishes, the meal preparation, the commute, the email inbox, the what have you). Avoiding eye contact with the futility because confronting that would surely cause a psychotic breakdown. 

And anyway psychotic breakdowns would be ill-advised and inconvenient because there are people you love and who interrupt the assembly line to deliver little boxes that when opened spill over with giggles and joy.*

Mr. Bucket's character isn't really fleshed out too much. Which is probably fine for a children's book. I don't think that as a kid I would've cared to read more about the tedium of Mr. Bucket's days. Not when Willy Wonka was around.

I feel kinship with Mr. Bucket. I'm sure as a child, he had dreams of being a Wonka – maker of edible grass, chocolate rivers and lickable wallpaper. Isn't that what childhood is about? All the possibilities? And even as an adult, I have to believe that Mr. Bucket, like me, still imagines building magical, beautiful things. But then the sun comes up and the day and its distractions slam into me in waves I attempt to swim over or under. The space for making gets pushed further and further back into the day until it's the night and then it's time for sleep.

Elizabeth Gilbert would tell me to just do the creating anyway. That it's not just the thing to do to pass the time, it's the thing to do to fill that part of your soul that's murdered daily by those damn toothpaste caps. 

It's an investment in your spirit and so an investment in humanity as a whole. The act of creation sending ripples of inspiration and empathy and beauty to the collective.

I think it takes tremendous courage to be a Wonka. And I think that our society doesn't value our Wonkas enough. We value them as far as the next cool gadget they design for us, maybe for the diversions they offer us from our own lives as Mr. Bucket. But I think if we really valued the Wonkas in a meaningful way, we'd all be Wonkas. 

Because It would be impossible not to be inspired and absorbed by the power and possibility of creation. More so than the allure of consumption.

Wonka knows.

"We are the music makers and we are the dreamers of the dreams."

I'm forever amazed by the Wonkas I know. And not just because of the things they create, but because of how they live their lives -- dedicated to things that bring them joy regardless of what the rest of the world might think. 

Like my friend Ellen who wouldn't think twice of wearing the sequined pizza shirt I found at Target (if only it came in a grown-up size) and our mutual friend Sam who has built an entire art empire around her obsession with bulldogs. And Beth and Megan whose dogged pursuit of fiction never ceases to amaze and inspire me. Or my cousin-in-law and her husband who have made art as essential to their lives as pants or water or (in my case) ice cream and who are raising their two little wild-haired girls to do the same. 

She shared this video, which says better what I'm trying to get at here ...

I imagine the Wonkas I know have moments (maybe many moments) when they feel like a Mr. Bucket. And I know I have times when I'm more Wonka, less Mr. Bucket. We are all both characters. Both practical and impractical and all the things in between. It's maybe a matter of whose voice we choose to listen to on any given minute on any given day. 

Ultimately, I think creation is an act of love. So then living creatively is living a life centered around love. And maybe that's why I struggle so much with feeling as if I'm sitting on that bench in the toothpaste factory. It feels more about survival than love. 

Over the summer, I attempted to do one act of art a day -- maybe it was just coloring something silly with the girls or writing a few words that weren't work or dancing in the kitchen. Nothing big or deep or anything. Just little acts of joy. 

I should probably get off my bench, get on that glass elevator and try that again.

*Today's little box of giggles came in a conversation with Jovie about our fish. I was attempting to determine the genders of the five baby fish we now have when Jovie informed me they'd already named them all girl's names.

"It's OK," she said. "If one of them's a boy, we can just change his name to Josh."

Wednesday, October 19, 2016

In search of serenity in the suburbs

I've been craving nature.

Well, more accurately, I've been craving solitude in nature. After reading "Wild" last year, I've been fantasizing about running away on an epic toe-nail dropping, armpit hair growing solo trek through the wilderness in search of my inner Earth Mother/Goddess/She-Ra (Princess of Power). It's not about running away so much as trying to run into myself.

Anyone else with me here? Anyone? Anyone? Is this thing on? 

In York, whenever I wanted to be away from cars and people, I visited the farm, which always felt well removed from all civilization, even if it was only minutes from a Walmart.

Northern Virginia never feels far removed from anywhere. No matter where you go, you'll always finding yourself stumbling over a subdivision or tripping over a strip mall. A Starbucks around every corner.

I've been wanting to feel away, away. To be swallowed by a forest, travailing narrow dirt paths -- like those hikes my dad used to take us on as children (we called them death marches at the time ... ahh ... hindsight) or the long walks I used to take that summer I spent in Duluth -- finding endless trails through endless trees where it felt like there were no other people in the world. Just me and the unraveling paths with peeks of Lake Superior. And bears. There were probably bears. I didn't think about them too much though.

But it's hard to do that here in the few hours I have before it's time to pick up Jovie from preschool or Lily from Kindergarten. (See: All the Traffic)

Strangely enough, this place is covered in trails. Asphalt pathways for running and biking and stroller pushing. They run alongside wide roadways and tall fences past neat shrubbery and tidy trees. And it's all very nice and clean and well appointed. 


But ... but ... but.

Today I took Jovie to a park near our house I'd driven by a few times. I was saddened to see the standard black asphalt path leading into the yellowing woods. But as we walked, the asphalt gave way to gravel and the gravel gave way to dirt. Then dirt rippled by tree roots and rocks.

I kept choosing narrower and narrower paths to go down, hoping to find what? I don't know. Absolute quiet? Absolute stillness? The divine?

It wasn't buried in these woods – so close to the airport you can see the landing gear of the planes overhead and glimpses of grills on the decks of houses surrounding this (kind of) wild place.

Choosing the rockiest paths did not lead to grand vistas or untouched wildernesses, but it did make us slow down. To tread carefully over unearthed rocks and roots. To scrape by thorny vines and grabbing sticks. Here it was that I had a thought about stillness, about slowing down. Maybe it didn't matter much  where the path led, only that it forced me to take my time. To stop and check for rocks in shoes and the best way to cross the creek. If we had been biking or running or even walking at a faster pace, we might have missed the cardinals on the creek bank and the turtle on the branch and the salmon-colored mushrooms growing on the toppled tree.

The green spaces here and their warren of asphalt paths might ease our journeys and keep our feet mud free – but I don't know, isn't the whole point of disappearing in the woods to find your way back to the earth, grime and all? Even if it is only a scrap of trees between your neighborhood and the grocery store. Can't we pretend to be even a little wild?

There were no grand adventures in the woods today. It was sun dappled and beautiful -- littered in gold leaves and smelling sweetly of the changing seasons. 

We took the path less traveled and it took us to tennis courts and a playground where Jovie could ride a giant chipmunk and climb a plastic rock wall like the pioneer girl she was born to be.

It wasn't so depressing actually. The woods seemed to giggle along with me at the absurdity of it all.

Guess I'll be keeping those toe nails for now. 

They grow chipmunks big around here.

Monday, October 3, 2016

Be still my raging brain

Photo courtesy of

Last week, given the overall dismal state of my mental affairs, I decided I was long overdue for a yoga class. The last class I'd gone to was in York and I came out of it with a new way of thinking about my then-impending move. The instructor had focused the whole class around transitions and it left me with a feeling of ... maybe not peace with  ... but at least in acceptance of the move. 

A month later, here we are. Moved. 

I found a studio that offered a class while Jovie was at preschool, so I went. Power I with Megan. The studio was much warmer than the classes I'd been going to. And the class was active. Like, Yoga as designed maybe by Tony Horton Lite. It was heavy on movement and sweating, and a little less focused on meditation. I spent some time in Child's Pose as the rest of the bendy, stretchy ladies around me powered through planks and Eagle poses. I'm probably a little out of shape. 

As we were going into half-pigeon, Megan reminded us to think about stillness. That because of the awkward nature of the pose, we often found ourselves wiggling and readjusting, when really we just need to stop and allow ourselves to stop moving and be still.

Still. This word stuck out to me. 

I'd been sending my sister Laura long mopey texts about how tough it's been to feel motivated here. And how strange its been not having the girls at home. Lily is gone all day at school and Jovie is gone for three hours in the morning three days a week. Next year she'll be at kindergarten all day, too.

I wasn't prepared for this transition. In York, Lily was going to half-day kindergarten. I've been home with them full time for five years now and I figured I'd have another couple years at least with at least one kid at home for most of the day. 

Not so, though. All the sudden those long days of tending to babies then toddlers then preschoolers is becoming something else. And I just have the two of them. I don't see foresee more babies on the horizon, so here I am on the eve of the next phase. And completely lost as to what I do next. I can't quite envision myself going back to work full time at a regular job (god, if for no other reason than I loathe the thought of shopping for professional-looking pants and sitting in a cubicle devoid of windows and natural light). And I can't quite envision myself doing the freelance work I do now forever and ever. And I can't feel that creative drive I'd felt so strongly in years past. The one where I could be a professional writer of real, live books. And I can't quite envision what the compromise is. What that "something else" could be because mostly I feel like I, as I told Laura, "a big sad sack of human bones who isn't even trying to transcend." (Maybe that's the depression talking ...)

"Sue ... I think I have experienced this panic. It's hard to be still with yourself," Laura texted me.

There's that word again. Still.

And yes it is. We as a species are not particularly good at being still physically or mentally.

Our culture doesn't value stillness. We value productivity and perseverance (especially if there's data to prove just how productive we are). 

But stillness? Stillness is almost a vice. Evidence of laziness or lack of drive. Like when we're not busy doing, we're just busy dying. 

Jokes on us though. 

As I settled into half-pigeon in that very sweaty yoga class, I got to thinking about stillness. I kind of yanked myself into the position and then started sinking. Trying to avoid excess wiggling and readjusting and fidgeting. I was still. But I noticed even in my stillness there was subtle movement. Not intentional on my part, just gravity slowly tugging me down further and further. 

And I thought about how stillness might not mean the absence of progress or change. Just a willful quieting of our bodies and minds. It's not as if we are ever truly still – our heart keeps beating, our neurons keep firing and my muscles (at least in half pigeon) keep shaking. 

The words still has multiple meanings.

There's being devoid of motion. Uttering no sound. Free from noise or disturbance.

But still is also used to describe the continuance of something.

It's both ceasing and ongoing.

I found this great quote from David Foster Wallace:

"Everything takes time. Bees have to move very fast to stay still."

So the stillness of right now, this small moment of my life, does not have to be about a failure to change or to grow – the real source of my panic. 

After my sister texted, I thought about the still things I know are forever changing. I thought about a trip to Utah I took years ago with my dad and uncle. There, we visited Arches National Park where millions of years of wind and rain have carved the desert sandstone into some of the most awe-inspiring landscapes you will ever see. Even those monolithic, seemingly immovable rock formations are ever-changing and impermanent. They, too, sink with the endless tug of gravity

The stillness of the arches allows us to admire the artistry of passing time, even as they're perpetually sculpted into something new.

So here I am. All the mania and stress surrounding the move is slowly filtering away (well, sort of, the house goes on the market tomorrow, so that will add another level of nail biting and gastric discomfort and sleeplessness to the proceedings).

Most of our things are put into their new places. The walls are still bare, but over time we will cover them. The house is becoming more lived in (i.e. covered in fur and figurines from various Disney Channel shows). 

We have new morning routines and new afternoon routines that are already starting to feel old. The system has been updated and rebooted and is now running along on its own.

And here I sit at my old dining room table in our new, borrowed dining room. The girls playing on their own – one in the living room the other in the sun room. I can only hear them, not see them. The house is a traditional Colonial - divided and subdivided into neat compartments of activity. As if we live in a bento box. I will myself not to think about our cozy little house in York, where sometimes it felt like we could barely escape each other. 

As I sit here, I start to think. Even here, immobilized as I am by what was and what will be, I am being reshaped. And who that person will be? Well, I guess only time will tell.

Monday, September 26, 2016

Here's where it hurts

Photo courtesy of Jon/Flicker
So, a couple weeks ago, I turned on the kitchen sink and heard a long ghostly howl coming from somewhere in the house. 

Someone flushed a toilet elsewhere in the house and another long ghostly howl shivered the house. 

Naturally, I headed to Google and found it probably had something to do with air in our pipes. Luckily, we had a plumber coming by to check on the water dripping from our kitchen ceiling, so I figured we could solve the problem then. Only when the plumber came, the pipes stopped howling. 

And then when he left, they started again (they're bashful I suppose.)

The pipes howl when we do laundry or run the dish washer or take a shower or brush our teeth. While not super loud, the howling is distracting. It's not like the white noise of the air conditioner. It's the incessant moan of a medium-sized animal dying a slow, painful death. So anytime the water is running (which, is surprisingly often) it's difficult to concentrate on anything productive.

While visiting York this week, I asked my very handy (former) neighbors for their advice and they, too turned to Google and found detailed instructions for fixing the problem, which involves bleeding the air out of the pipes in a very systematic fashion (it all sounds very violent and medieval, but I'll give it a whirl to be free of the pain-stricken pipe Wookie that's not quite dead yet). 

I bring up my noisy pipes because they offer a really great illustration for my mental state these days, whereby I am myself and the pipes are depression. This near-constant, distracting entity preventing me from fully engaging in life.

Grooooooooan you say (not unlike my pipes). I thought we'd talked that all to death last year. Funny how cyclical life is. 

See, around late spring/early summer, I was feeling pretty good about life. So I thought it might be time to see if I could stop taking my antidepressants. My doctor had suggested I stay on it for a year -- and it had been about a year more or less (OK, maybe a little less ... but not much). And I figured life had settled and I was steady and on we go. Did I talk to my doctor? Of course not. I'd only seen him once before (to get the prescription in fact) and didn't feel much like delving into my mental state one-on-one (I save that sort of stuff for the internet). I felt confident that I would be OK and so I weaned myself off over a month or so. 

And I was OK.

Then we decided to move. 

And that has taken some ... adjusting.

I've struggled with whether it's the move or stopping antidepressants or something else as to why I'm so weighed down lately. I'm not racing to any conclusions, just waiting for the dust to settle here for now.

The other day I was reading the Point After column in a recent Sports Illustrated. 

It featured the story of rower and Paraolympian Blake Haxton who almost died when a flesh-eating disease took  his left leg and most of his right. He endured six weeks of more than 20 operations, his heart stopped and he was on life support, but he survived. 

"He would live, but he was missing most of his legs and neither hand was working. He couldn't sleep and couldn't roll over. Eighteen years into his life, Haxton woke up as an infant," columnist Michael Rosenberg wrote. "Depression could have sunk in. It never did."

Oh. Here we go, I thought to myself as my blood pressure rose. Now this kid is going to look the misery of his situation in its face, stare it down with sheer force of will and mental athleticism. 

But that wasn't what came next. Instead, Blake showed tremendous compassion and understanding of mental health (whether he realized it or not).

"I say that a little reluctantly," he says. "I don't think it was any act of will or violation on my part. I think I just got lucky in terms of chemistry. I don't think I'm prone to [depression]. The last thing I want to say is that I just toughed it out. I really didn't."

My anger about what I thought was going to come next came from an unexpected place. I guess I didn't know how tired of that narrative I am. The one where anyone can overcome depression simply by developing a better attitude. That if I were just strong enough. Just willing enough. If I just tried a little harder, I wouldn't feel this tired and this worn down. If I could focus on gratitude. And the small, beautiful things life leaves at my feet each day.

Because I do see those things. I see the lovely, warm smile my teenaged neighbor offers me when we cross paths. I see the patch of pink and lavender petunias creeping on to the sidewalk when I walk the dog. I see all the children waiting in line for their bus waving at us "Hi Lily! Hi Lily! Hi Lily!" they yell as we walk by -- and Lily with her grin. I see all the texts my siblings send. Checking in to say hi. Checking in to see how I'm doing. Checking in to share a funny photo or anecdote. I see these things and I'm grateful for them, too. 

For me, depression is not the inability to see beauty in the world. It's not the absence of gratitude. 

But sometimes that beauty can be painful. Because of the realization that it might be the only thing propping me up. And I wonder for just how long that thing can stand before it buckles under the weight of me. 

I'm grateful for this life. For my two healthy children and supportive husband and my amazing extended family. I'm grateful for having the opportunity to work from home so that I could stay at home with those two healthy children. I'm grateful for the walk home from Lily's new school – even when the kids whine about how far it is. I'm grateful for the cat door in our rental house that prevents the dog from binging on cat poop. I'm grateful for Wegman's Chocolate Nutty Cone Ice Cream. I'm grateful for sleep.

That's the rub of depression. All these things to be grateful for. Yet still so defeated and being constantly conscious of the fact that your defeat feels unearned somehow. Unwarranted. Unnecessary.

My defeat has not made me less conscious of how awful life can be for others. I'm an exposed nerve, so how can I not watch this video of a Syrian-Finnish man smuggling toys into Aleppo and not be heartbroken by his words:

"We inside Syria have lost our faith in the outside world. We think we are totally deserted. We are not even human. We are bombarded by everybody. We want this war to end. We want these atrocities to end."

We are not even human. 

Or not be affected by the power and beauty and desperation of the words of public theologian and Civil Rights veteran Ruby Sales when she talks about her concern about the spiritual crisis in White America on On Being: 

"I really think that one of the things that we’ve got to deal with is that how is it that we develop a theology or theologies in a 21st-century capitalist technocracy where only a few lives matter? How do we raise people up from disposability to essentiality? And this goes beyond the question of race. What is it that public theology can say to the white person in Massachusetts who’s heroin-addicted because they feel that their lives have no meaning, because of the trickle-down impact of whiteness in the world today? What do you say to someone who has been told that their whole essence is whiteness and power and domination? And when that no longer exists, then they feel as if they are dying or they get caught up in the throes of death, whether it’s heroin addiction. 
I don’t hear any theologies speaking to the vast amount — that’s why Donald Trump is essential, because although we don’t agree with him, people think he’s speaking to that pain that they’re feeling. So what is the theologies? I don’t hear anyone speaking to the 45-year-old person in Appalachia, who is dying of a young age, who feels like they’ve been eradicated because whiteness is so much smaller today than it was yesterday. Where is the theology that redefines to them what it means to be fully human? I don’t hear any of that coming out of anyplace today. 
And we’ve got a spirit — there’s a spiritual crisis in white America. It’s a crisis of meaning, and I don’t hear — we talk a lot about black theologies, but I want a liberating white theology. I want a theology that speaks to Appalachia. I want a theology that begins to deepen people’s understanding about their capacity to live fully human lives and to touch the goodness inside of them rather than call upon the part of themselves that’s not relational. Because there’s nothing wrong with being European American. That’s not the problem. It’s how you actualize that history and how you actualize that reality. It’s almost like white people don’t believe that other white people are worthy of being redeemed.And I don’t quite understand that. It must be more sexy to deal with black folk than it is to deal with white folk if you’re a white person. So as a black person, I want a theology that gives hope and meaning to people who are struggling to have meaning in a world where they no longer are as essential to whiteness as they once were."
Or listen to the furious, baffled cry of Rakeyia Scott: "Did you shoot him? Did you shoot him? Did you shoot him?"

Or watch the presidential debate and wonder how on earth we got here. 

I don't mean to elevate my struggle with depression to the levels of all the pain in the world today. Not in the least. But it's a real, human part of me in a world where being human all the sudden seems in jeopardy somehow. As if we're not really seeing each other. We're always looking over the shoulder of each other's pain rather than looking it in the eye. 

So here is my pain. My brain is wired such that some days I wake up and don't want to get out of bed (but I do). And I can't quite tether my brain to my body and be present in my life. And I can't quite find hope that I will ever feel any different than this darkness. I can't quite locate the hope in all the misery (I imagine this is a shared pain). 

Ruby Sales asks the question, "Where does it hurt?" The same question we ask our children when they fall down. It's a question we need to ask each other more, without judgment of the answer. It's a humanizing question. (And in fact, On Being is asking everyone to answer it here).

Moving forward here, I'll attempt to bleed our literal and metaphorical pipes and continue to look for the things to be grateful for. Like that the toilet in the master bathroom has stopped leaking (hell, that I even have a master bathroom! The coveted en suite!) and that we've managed to reduce the population of fruit flies in our kitchen (as it turns out in our house, you can actually catch more flies with vinegar than honey). 

And that there are so many people on this earth willing to listen and to love over all that howling. 

Monday, September 12, 2016

Homecoming and Hopecoming

I was sitting at Jovie's preschool orientation last week and I wanted to disappear. I wanted my face to not by my face. To somehow melt off into some nondescript other. Someone else. I wanted to take up as little space as possible.

Last year at preschool orientation I was friendly. I was open to conversation. I waved to parents I knew and sort of knew. I smiled widely and often. Confidence bred from familiarity and comfort. 

It is unnerving being in a new place. Even if it's a place I'm kind of familiar with. A new old place.

Peanut Butter, our cat, sequestered herself in her cat carrier in the laundry room, which reeks of other animal smells. I poked my head in periodically and invited her into the rest of the house and she just stared. "I'm good here."

And I got it. Being in a new place (or a new old place) can make you want to crawl into the smallest space with the most familiar smells and wait out the apocalypse. 

During our first few days in Virginia leaving the house to run to the store or visit the school felt like gargantuan, exhausting tasks. Nothing was rote anymore. Nothing looked familiar. Even those universal places like Target weren't quite right. Bizarro world places where things aren't where you expect them to be. 

But we're creating new pathways trip by trip. 

The walk to school is marked by two hills and the house with the wind chimes in the tree and the house with the lambs ear plants near the sidewalk that the girls must pet each time we go by. There's the man with the cowboy boots and wide-brimmed hat. The gorgeous, impossibly tan and fit gym teach greeting the kids with perfectly curled hair. 

The dark-haired children hopping off the bus in their jewel-colored dresses from where? India? Pakistan? They're much farther from home than me.

The route to preschool takes me through a neighborhood that looks so much like the one I grew up in I half expect to see younger versions of my sister and I on our bikes racing to the pool. 

It's such strange de ja vu returning as an adult to place you grew up. Or, at least a least a place near where you grew up. How could I have forgotten about the crunchy black crickets jumping around the crabgrass and in the kitchen? Or, Anita's? Where you can get the most delicious breakfast burritos ever. The crab grass here sends up long, skinny fronds I remember tickling my legs during gym class. The dark brown hinges on the doors to Lily's elementary school are identical to the one's at my elementary school -- I was always afraid they'd pinch me.

Life feels foggy right now. 

Last Sunday, after moving all day Saturday, I returned to York to pick up the fish. It's just this little 10 gallon aquarium, but the logistics involved with moving it were almost as hive-inducing as fitting the entirety of our lives into the back of a U-Haul.

You have to catch the fish and put them into a portable container, reserve as much of their water as you can so you don't shock them in their new setup, keep the filter wet, empty the rest of the aquarium water, transport all that into the car and reset everything back up in our new house in a two-hour window (what happens to the fish after two hours? No idea? Implosion maybe?). Refilling the tank in Virginia stirred up all sorts of debris and waste from the bottom of the tank. The fish looked like they were swimming in a snow globe. Well ... a fish poo snow globe anyway. 

And that's kind of how it's felt around here a little bit. I mean, not that I'm swimming through actual fish poo -- but moving has stirred up all kinds of physical and mental debris and trying to wade through it is trying and tiring. The stuff in the tank settled back into the gravel -- and the water is clear again. And I know that will happen here, eventually. 

In the meantime, I feel a bit stunned wandering around here. Disoriented -- like I've just left a dark building into the blinding noon sun. I can't see quite right and my brain and body are slower, like they're swimming through syrup. The sounds inside the house and outside the house -- all the chirps and motors and dins and buzzes and beeps and hums -- they're all different. 

And I've lived here before. I mean, I lived near here. It was more than a decade ago, but still.

Driving back from visiting my sisters the other day (returning to Virginia means returning to all my sisters. And my little brother. Not without its perks.) I was thinking about moving. How I had hadn't anticipated this feeling of otherness in a place I used to know so well. Had it really changed all that much? Or had I? As with most things in life, it's probably both things.

I admit I'm a huge wimp when it comes to major life changes. I mean, I'll do the thing, but not with a lot of hemming, hawing, whining, crying, foot dragging, etc. (This is obviously not news to anyone who's been reading this blog recently). And this is returning to a place that, eight years ago, I was actively trying to return to!

I know. I know. Ridiculous.

How do people survive bigger moves? Moves to totally new places? 

Last week on the preschool playground, I was chatting with Elizabeth, who moved here six or seven years ago from Puerto Rico. She spoke English well, but she said it can still be tiring, constantly having to translate and assimilate while simultaneously pining for the life she had -- hoping to share part of her heritage with her son. 

What drives someone to not only leave their town or their state, but also leave their whole country behind? Arrive in a place where it's not just a matter of figuring out the layout at a new grocery store, but navigating entire cultures and new languages. 

Chasing new opportunities? Escaping unbearable situations? Something in between?

It strikes me as a really brave thing to do.  

What does that say about our country -- this melting pot -- that so many people willingly give up what's familiar for something so foreign?

I often get too focused on what's wrong about this place. Because, let's face it, as a country, we're kind of a mess right now. We're fearful of our neighbors, while feeling desperate for community. We've replaced dialogues with self-righteous monologues. We're so focused on black versus white that we no longer see gray.

We make the average eighth-grade boy look like reasonable, sane person.

Yet, despite all the flaws, people from all over the world still want to come here. To build a life among this lunacy.

And my best guess for the question of why is simple. 


Our raging, rageful adolescent hormones notwithstanding, we still offer hope. 

And that's enough for them to swim through their own metaphorical snow globes of fish poo. 

Coming here is still a worthwhile endeavor.

I realize I'm a long way from where I started. Back when I was trying to disappear among the parents at preschool or bunker down in a cat carrier in our smelly laundry room. 

That's usually what happens when I get to thinking about things. The road from Point A to Point B is filled with detours through poo-filled aquariums and bypasses near my sister's house and U-turns around the state of the country.

Here's how you survive a move. You do the heavy lifting. You allow the dust to settle. You You leave the house and you hope that the next time you return, it becomes home.

And you know eventually it will.

Because that's the great thing about moving here. 


It's part of our identity as a country. And so it's part of mine. 

The Virginian turned Pennsylvanian turned Virginian again.

Ever the hopeful American.

Friday, September 2, 2016

Goodbye York

Photo courtesy of Lauren Siegert/Flickr
In the great big state, there was a lovely old town
With a statue of a strongman, spinning around.

And a beautiful park with giant stuffed bears
And a carousel at the crowded York Fair.

And parades of full of green things
And shiny, candy-coated cars.

And a Christmas forest to amble through
Where lights twinkle like stars.

And a market house, near a smelly soap shop,
Where you’ll always find lots of bubbles to pop.

And a cozy house with a purple door,
Near friendly neighbors
And squirrels in costumes galore.

And a farm full of silly critters
And a school full of friends.
 And a library full of stories.
We wished would never end.

Goodbye town.
Goodbye strongman, spinning around.
Goodbye stuffed bears.
And goodbye York Fair.

Goodbye parades. Goodbye cars.
Goodbye to the Christmas lights twinkling like stars.

Goodbye market house and the smelly soap shop.
Goodbye all the bubbles, we love to pop.

Goodbye cozy house and goodbye purple door.
Goodbye friendly neighbors
goodbye costumed squirrels.

Goodbye farm.
Goodbye friends.

A new story begins, where another ends.