Homesickness
homesick (hōm′-sik): longing for home and family while absent from them
The little lady at the left, Grace, shown here at five months, just had her fifth birthday on January 9. She lives in Oregon, both near and impossibly distant at the same time. I’ve known Grace since she was six hours old, the only human being on the planet I’ve ever met so early in life.
Shortly after her birth, I was in the hospital room with Grace, her parents, and her grandmother. They asked, “do you want to hold her, Jim?”
“Uh. OK.” (I said nervously.)
And, then, in my arms, just like that, the bond I had felt with the mother and grandmother, was extended to this new little one as well.
I assume there was a birthday party for her fifth. I wasn’t there. And, there’s been this feeling, this knot in my stomach, this emptiness, lately. A feeling borne from being absent. A longing for familiar places and people.
Grace, her mother, and her grandmother, were all part of the group in Oregon that had referred to me as “family.” Although life and relationship with “C,” the grandmother, were fraught with difficulty, the closeness and inclusion I experienced was an extremely significant element of my life for a decade. And, I had “adopted” (in my heart), C’s three children and two grandchildren.
For the most part, that all disappeared right after I moved to California.
America is about to embark on a new journey. Barack Obama will be inaugurated tomorrow and an overwhelming sense of hope and optimism prevails, even in these times of deep economic despair.
And while the rest of the country celebrates, I am ailing with melancholy. I would love to be home for this occasion.
Soundtrack Suggestion
Homeward bound
I wish I was
Homeward bound
Home, where my thoughts escaping
Home, where my musics playing
Home, where my love lies waiting
Silently for me
(“Homeward Bound” – Simon & Garfunkel)
Still the Monk
I’ve been thinking, in recent days, that it’s possible I might have to relinquish my well-earned, and entirely appropriate, moniker of “TechnoMonk.” As you may recall (or likely not), the name was given to me by “C” in recognition of my propensity for always acquiring the latest and greatest technology toys – and my concomitant inclination toward Spartan furnishings in the rest of my life. Probably the most notable of my minimalist tendencies has been the practice of sleeping on a futon. And not only have I slept on one for a very long time, it’s been placed on the floor in my various bedrooms – giving those spaces a perpetually-bare, “monkish” appearance.
Well, all that is about to change. I bought a new mattress/box-spring set that is scheduled to be delivered next weekend. In terms of the events of my life (and if you don’t count all the job changes and moves in recent times), this act is practically revolutionary.
I say this because this is something that I’ve put off doing for years and years. Well, truth be told: decades. I am admitting here to unhealthy, counter-productive behavior, and perhaps even a totally neurotic tendency, of delaying a purchase that I’ve long suspected would be good for me.
So, what’s the back story here?
Well, I was divorced in 1978. Yes, very long ago. A much different time. Jimmy Carter was president, for crying out loud. When we were married, “M” and I had a wonderful queen-sized bed, made of teak. We used a foam mattress, which gave us a very firm, supportive sleeping surface. And it was a beautiful piece of furniture.
I left that teak bed behind when I left the marriage. I subsequently moved into an apartment with practically no furnishings. I spent the first couple weeks sleeping in a sleeping bag on the floor – before finally purchasing a foam mattress (that I also kept on the floor). Even though I had no immediate plans to be in a relationship again, I thought, even back then, that purchasing a “real bed” could wait...that I could buy another one, eventually, with another partner.
In my (much to my surprise) perpetually-single state, though, the foam mattress lasted for years. Finally, a year after I moved to Indiana, in 1991, I replaced the foam with a new futon. Again, I placed this bed on the floor. Despite occasional recommendations, over the years, from chiropractors and other health-care practitioners, that I find a more suitable sleeping surface, I persisted. I was always thinking that “the one” was right around the corner...and no sooner would I buy a bed that it would be the wrong one for “us.”
Well, here I am over 31 years later. (Holy crap, how did this happen?) I’ve been sleeping on the floor for three-plus decades. Despite, at one point, being close to having all that change. In early 1998, I suggested to “C” that I was thinking about buying a new bed (to make her visits to my place more accommodating). The huge negative reaction to that idea on her part was totally shocking...and I should have known right there that this was not a relationship with long-term prospects. Ah, all the missed clues!
Yes, and even our last night together involved a spat that involved rejection of both me as well as the futon we were on. The truly bizarre admission that I have to make here in this essay, is that after that last night together, I kept the futon on the floor in the bedroom, but I spent approximately the next five years sleeping on the sofa: so much did I hate the site, the futon, of our final staking-out-of-positions...that led to the end of us as a couple. I have never admitted this to anyone. Well, until y’all, right now.
So, here I am, almost ten years past that point...finally making steps to take care of myself: to no longer punish myself by sleeping on an inappropriate surface, or banishing myself to the sofa to avoid negative memories of “the end.”
I have made great strides in improving my chronic pain issues in the last year. There is still progress to made, though. And I suspect that sleeping on a real bed will make a difference.
Though this may all put my “TechnoMonk” reputation at stake, I’m willing. And eager. To be healthier.
But still “the monk.”
Dreams & Confessions
As I awakened very early this morning, for one of those ungodly pre-dawn visits to the bathroom, I was aware that I had been dreaming of writing a blog post entitled “Dreams & Confessions.” At the time, I remember being quite clear on how the essay would go. Of course, I went right back to sleep, got up a couple of hours later, and all that had stuck with me was the title. So, what I’ve done right here, right now, is to sit down at the keyboard to see if my fingers are able to fill in the blanks...
An extremely vague memory of my dream-time last night is a snapshot of an experience that is, well, really just a dream. The scene is one where I am walking down the sidewalk with a young woman I feel very close to. As we are about to cross the street at an intersection, I reach to take her hand just as she simultaneously reaches out for mine. The unusual thing about the gesture is, I realize, this is the first time we’ve touched. And we’ve both decided to do it for the first time - at the same time. We take each other’s hand, look each other in the eye, and both smile radiantly.
And that’s the sum total of my memory of the dream.
I don’t know who she is. Or, if in the dream, I am the same (younger) age as she, or if I am the age I am now. Or where we are. Or how we know each other. Or why we’re together on this particular sunny afternoon.
This small slice of time reminds me a little bit of the one described by “Sam” (Tom Hanks) in Sleepless in Seattle. Sam said, “I don’t know. When I met her, it was so clear. I just knew. You touch her for the first time, and suddenly... you’re home. It’s almost like...Magic.”
So, if that’s the dream part of this essay...what could I possibly have to confess?
Well: that I believe Magic Happens? It would seem that I’ve already confessed that. Just recently, in fact.
So, I guess I could further confess that I have wide-awake fantasies (not just dreams) of this kind a lot. For as many years now that I’ve been alone, and as much as I try to talk myself into believing that I’m OK alone...well, I would prefer not to be. And at no time of year is it more difficult to have these kinds of magical fantasies than the holidays.
At this time of year, especially, I think about having someone’s hand to hold. To have somebody to help me warm my feet at night. And someone to share life, love and presents with on Christmas Eve.
This I confess.
To My Health
During the span of the three-plus years I’ve been blogging, I have offered an ongoing discussion about various aspects of my health. Most of those musings have had to do with my struggles with chronic pain, especially in the aftermath of my job loss in 2004. This entry is a very brief follow-up to my July 7 report entitled “On Vibrancy and Health.”
As you know, I’ve led a roller-coaster type of emotional existence with regard to my physical well-being – as I’ve explored a variety of alternative therapies and approaches to cope with my body-wide muscular pain. My condition is one that modern “Western medicine” has been totally unable to diagnose or assist with.
Last Saturday, my Feldenkrais practitioner declared that I looked “good” and “healthy” – repeating observations that she’d been making in recent weeks. We’ve been working together for a year now, during which time I have admittedly made remarkable progress. Additionally, she offered the opinion that not only do I look healthy, but that I am healthy.
I believe that she’s right. I no longer have pain as the primary identifier of who I am. I am a basically-healthy person who experiences some pain. I am not a person whose life is dominated by pain and pain-control.
Of course, I have to be careful. I attend to, and nurture, my physical health as much as anyone I know. I watch closely what I put into my body and stay away from “junk.” I have a regimen of dietary supplements that I won’t do without. I take hot baths, go to Jazzercise classes and Feldenkrais lessons, walk every day (about eight months a year, anyway), and do stretches & movements morning and evening to focus on relaxing my irritable muscles. I keep a regular schedule and make sure I get enough sleep.
Fortunately, along with all of this, I live in a geography and inhabit a living-space that I feel comfortable with. And, I have a mostly-stable and supportive work environment that has made a huge difference in my life.
Things, right now, seem to be working on a personal level. Now, if the economy would just start to turn around and offer the world a little more hope, that would be great...
Chasing Intimacy
News reports circulated yesterday regarding the latest research on the topic of “happiness.” As it turns out, empirical data now exist to support the notion that your emotional state is influenced, to a measureable degree, by those around you. Given that I’ve long hypothesized that anxiety is a contagious condition,it’s no stretch at all for me to imagine that happiness is as well. It seems that the closer you are geographically to a happy person the more likely you are to be happy. However, for the happiness to be “spread,” the connection you have with the other person needs to be mediated by face-to-face contact. Not technology.
Interesting.
