Place, space, time, and hearts

On Place

I have moved my place of existence and focus from western Washington to central New York. I am fascinated by what Place is. What makes somewhere in this country feel different than somewhere else? How do we all experience Place: in generally different or generally similar ways to each other? I have no essay on these things, but I am still wondering myself.

I miss the mountain—Mt. Rainier—in a way I had never believed possible. It’s only a land form….but I’ve realized I experienced that mountain in almost a spiritual way. My knees would get a little weak if I were to see that looming white and, at sunset, purple massiveness….so rare for the clouds to part for her. I would always check east for the mountain, and even now, here in upstate NY I’ll look east and if there happens to be a cloud in just the right place I’ll do a little double-take in silly hope.

But there are no mountains. Instead we have the finger lakes. And lots of little rolling hills, the Wayne Drumlins. Or, as I called them on my bicycle today while riding them, the Wayne Dumplings.

In western Washington there are drive-through coffee shacks and no ice cream huts, and central NY is all about the ice cream huts, totally lacking in coffee shacks. How interesting! Why? How do we get our quick buzzes? Sugar and fat or caffeine?

In central NY there are countless equidistant towns of similar size, rather than a series of towns along the main vein of commuter spread-out, like near Seattle.

And here there are more pickup trucks.

On New Living Arrangements

I may be working an unglamorous job with a lowly hourly wage, but I have just come into a substantial fortune.

But the sort of fortune that needs some uninterring.

The Hobart and William Smith College tenants where I’m living, The Little Room in the Messy House, have vacated. And they have left a fine array of products. But of course these products aren’t on beautiful display like in a grocery store; instead they are on dusty shelves, forgotten behind the book shelf, left dripping in the bathroom.

I suppose some people might be reticent and a little disgusted to eat some stranger’s half box of granola, or adopt their old hand cream. But you’d use your friend’s? So I just reason that these folks would’ve become friends after some time so it’s no different anyway.

Plus I was thoroughly conditioned by sleeping various places in Cambodia to face all sorts of dust, grime, and ick to Search, Find, and Rescue these goodies from this house.

Last week I organized and cleaned, feeling very purposeful and humid. The shelves and cabinets were totally disorganized, with Nutellas in two different places. I found this wholly satisfying, the simple task of moving about and grouping Grains together, the Teas, the Pastas….

Leaving Burt’s Bees Milk-N-Honey hand cream is inconceivable to me (that stuff is not cheap!), although I imagine someone being in a rush to leave, or having enough money where you’ll just buy another bottle later. But still, I cannot understand seeing what are to me “treat” products, as such disposable things. It’s been an interesting peak into the residuals of others’ different ways of life.  

Some of my favorites were the crate-sized container of Wegman’s Organic Animal Crackers, the German bottle of liquor I have-no-idea-what-it-is but it looks expensive, the Teavana tea, the Farro grain, and the chia seeds. I’m fortunate these people weren't all into just ramen or cake mixes, but the sort of Splurge Food I’d want for myself but never feel worthy enough to buy. What a blessing!

Yeah…..Chia seeds. Which I should write a bit about. Those minuscule seeds all recently famous for their high protein, fiber, and good energy content. When soaked in water they form a little coat of gel around themselves, interestingly, to their hydration benefit. Healthy and satisfying (satisfying in the knowledge of how healthy they allegedly are), however, disconcerting when—some time after breakfast—you take a swig of water, and a chia seed, now all engorged with its little gel coat, is felt above your tongue. It hadn’t arrived there with the water; it had been lurking in there, somewhere, and lord help you if it had been in one of the visible front row seats. Grabby little buggers.

Thoughts on being alone and on being

My current existence is markedly different from what I had grown accustomed to recently. In southeast Asia Lady Elise and I ate (pho) together, slept (in hairy beds) together, pedaled (seaside climbs) together—in that foreign place we had to be our everything for each other. And then upon return, my time was with Mr. India, in that way where daily quotidian items are bring lights because you’re with a beloved one. And now, I am entirely alone. Except for weekends, which are rich with friends and family who have known me since I was young and awkward.

I was curious how it would be, bicycling home to an empty house, to cook and then eat alone, and then spend my evenings. But I am not at all bored: working on a manuscript from my master’s work, cleaning and organizing my newly adopted jars of Nutella (ha), playing the organ in preparation for Sunday services.

I had realized something, standing there next to the alter, head craned towards the intricate ceiling. That I really enjoy being in empty churches alone. I put my finger on it; it’s not just the organ playing, it’s having such an intentional space that normally is filled with people, all to yourself. The holiness becomes especially resonant in the stillness and silence.

On heartbreak revisited

I had erroneously thought that even Short-term Time would make heartbreak lessen, that it would get painted over by other things. 

This is not happening. 

Granted, it has changed over time, but only the immediacy of it has faded. But I am learning that sorrow can exist intertwined with the joys of a bluebird, the laughter of friends, the endorphins of a bicycle ride. I miss him intensely, and it comes in unexpected little waves, just when I think I might be disengaging myself from it. I woke up on a gray day earlier this week, a little spinny from the alarm, bleakened from the low skies. “I miss you Anurag” I said out loud first thing, heavy from it in the gray, “but let’s go make tea.” I try to be good to myself, as Mother Wisdom had once said, “take care of yourself like you would your dearest friend.” 

Pastor Articulate also had something very wise to say about this, “it is like a death…you don’t forget it or leave it behind; instead you learn to assimilate it.”

I think I am learning a lot from the wise ones around me, because of this.

I’m also learning that there is a strong present-ness in sadness. Sometimes so much in the moment, so aware of my being and others around me, simply even what people are saying, what I am seeing….life and existence become heightened, if just for a moment. Like I’m on some strange chemical and perceptions are altered.

Aloneness is not loneliness. I am experiencing both at the moment.

Loneliness happens most intensely in public places, at Wegman’s or walking in the park, where I see couples holding hands and talking in low voices to each other. I feel like saying to them, “you don’t know how good you’ve got it: you get to keep each other.”

Aloneness can be a celebration and rich, in this personal way, almost in that way a child relishes a secret—All Mine. I go and play the pipe organ, shamelessly loud, bold in knowledge of no other ears, and relish there being just me. You can be extra bold without expectations of others around you.