Home...Revisited

Pabst Snow Picnic with my siblings

I am writing this on the last day of Winter, 2010.  I have been thinking about Home this week.  Home in the sense of people, places and things.

A year ago, I prepared to fly down to Austin with my sister to revisit our old town and attend the wedding of friends.  I had not flown in several years and had since experienced a slow, creeping anxiety about flying.  I wrote about my experience getting back on a plane in my blog post, "Why I Am Not at Home On a Plane."  Strange that a year later these feelings are resurfacing, spurred by a dream I had several days ago about flying to China with a friend and not being able to board the plane out of sheer fear and panic.  As mentioned in my blog post from a year ago, before getting on the plane again, I had to come to grips with why I really, truly, and honestly am afraid to fly.

My mind treats flying as if it is a treacherous journey full of peril, like going to the moon.  Many people I know treat flying with the same ease as riding a sleigh "to Grandmother's house we go."  Why my mind can't see flying as what it is - one of the safest ways to travel - is a mystery.  But it is not just about the act of flying on a plane for me, it is ultimately my fear of dying manifested in a tangible form - something that I do while living that reminds me of my vulnerability and the fact that, yes, I am going to die one day, and so is everyone around me.

It's no wonder then that I cling so fiercely to things that seem constant, stable, and true: my simple life in our farmhouse with my husband and dog; the thought of sleeping in my own bed with just them in the room with me; my siblings, friends, and family who live close by; trips to visit my parents, sister, Grandmother, aunts, uncles, cousins, in places that I've known my whole life.  There is nothing unusual about just wanting to be home, whatever home is to you in that moment.

So why do I seem to revisit these thoughts of home every year when the world is just awakening again after a long winter?  Perhaps it's just my recent dream that happened to spark these feelings again.  Or perhaps it's hormones, a passing mood, a last moment of reflection and introspection as the pensive season of winter dies again.

I do know one thing for sure: I cherish these places and people more than anything, and more than ever, as adulthood forces me to face my own vulnerability and fragility in this world, and the mortality of those around me.  I never let a day pass without spending time in face-to-face, meaningful experiences with real people (not the computer screen) - and animals - doing real activities: sampling new foods, romping around outside, sharing a laugh around the kitchen table, playing music together on a stage, toasting life over glasses of wine, taking walks with my dog and husband, giving hugs, being honest, sharing emotions and memories, playing board games, writing songs, having picnics in the snow, hosting dinner parties with almost more dogs than people...

...and for now I just want all these things in my little corner of the U.S.  I travel quite a bit with my band and because most of my family lives 3-5 hours away.  I lived and traveled around the world as a child (Norway, France, Europe, etc.), and all over the country in my 20s (Boston, Idaho, Austin).  I do love to travel and experience new things, but my instinct at this point in my life as I enter my 30s, unpredictable as instincts are, is to simplify and focus on things that are close, immediate, constant, and that I've known my whole life.

As Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros sing: "Home, yes I am home!  Home is wherever I'm with you."

Why I Am Not at Home On a Plane

© Chace + Smith Photography

What is home to you?

I am a nervous flyer. That is to say, I am now, in my late 20s, a nervous flyer. I have flown my whole life, with company or by myself, with confidence and ease of mind. When I was a toddler, my family lived in Norway, flying often across the ocean and around Europe. Then, when I was ten, we moved to France for a year. I remember those plane rides more vividly, and while I may have experienced some air sickness, I never felt afraid for my life.

Now, some 19 years later, I have developed a fear I cannot explain. I recently flew back to Austin, TX, where I recently lived for 4 years. It had been over 3 years since I had flown, and while it was unacceptable NOT to take the flight, since it meant going somewhere fun and exciting, I was, nonetheless, apprehensive about how the experience would be. It's hard not to build something up in your head that you are afraid of if you haven't done it in some time.

I worked hard with my acupuncturist in the weeks prior to my trip to try and discover where these feelings might originate. One concept that came to light was my strong allegiance to "home." By this, I mean "home" in the literal sense, but also the visceral sense. Home is grounded, safe, and full of personal meaning. It can be in multiple places, and with various people. For instance, Austin is one of my homes, and so is Mercersburg, PA, Highland Lake, Moscow, ID, and Bainbridge, NY. Home means being with my loved ones, my husband, my dog. Home means having two feet on solid ground.

"Home" is not careening through the air at 30,000 feet.

My fear generates partially from the idea of "leaving" home, whether physically (i.e. getting in a plane and going somewhere far away) or figuratively (i.e. well...dying, and having to leave everything I know behind forever). Getting on a plane opens up the possibility for both. Of course, part of my fear is irrational, and I realize this, but it makes it no less potent and real experientially.

Another element that ties into my need for "home" is the idea of buoyancy. Think about the saying, "I feel light as a feather." I immediately picture Charlie Bucket and Grandpa Joe drinking "fizzy lifting drinks" and floating merrily up, up, up! The saying has positive connotations; it means you are happy, free-spirited, and unaffected by the trials of the world.

But buoyancy can also involve feeling so disconnected or untethered to any sense of "home" that you actually experience vertigo (picture that spinning fan at the top of the ceiling that suddenly turns Charlie and Grandpa Joe's experience into a nightmare). This is how I feel on a plane. If the pilot has to lower the plane in altitude to avoid turbulence, for instance, I easily lose my sense of groundedness and control, and mentally feel afraid that something is wrong with the plane (i.e. we're "going down"). Not a pleasant feeling. There is a reason I don't ride on roller coasters either. I have never enjoyed feeling like my stomach is in my throat. If only I could just burp away the fear, Willy Wonka style!

My recent flight experience ended up being somewhat fine, and somewhat distressing. On the way to Austin, I was determined to make flying a positive experience and focused on my reverence for the amazing flying machine in which I sat. I venerated the mechanical precision of the wings and engines, and the miraculous buoyancy of this gargantuan contraption. In those rational moments, I knew that planes are built to be in the air, and are actually safer when in flight, and that air travel is the safest form of travel. The return flight, on the other hand, was a bit bumpy, and I was faced with having to admit to myself the reality of my fear. Looking out the window, travel-weary from our crazy week in Austin, I just wanted the flight to be over and to be safe on solid ground, to regroup, and continue to work on this new fear of mine. Luckily my sister was with me, and handles flying quite well. It was nice to have her reassurance when the plane would make sudden dips in the sky.

My goal in working on this fear is to achieve a "buoyancy balance" (catchy, huh?), wherein I am rooted in self-control, mental ease, and confidence, but have a lightness in spirit, and a bounce in my step. This concept is helpful in everyday life, as well as in addressing any of the fears we may experience, whether they are ingrained or new ones surfacing without warning. Hopefully, I will achieve some balance with my fear of flying. After all, I have a lot of traveling left to do!

Do you ever feel like your "buoyancy" is unbalanced? Have you experienced new fears as you grow older that you never did before? What gives you a sense of "home"?

Enjoy Your Town

Yesterday was one of those days you wish you could seal in a bottle and reopen whenever you want.

We have been living in our hometown for almost 8 months now, after living away for 10 years. I have been wary of the possibility that the novelty of it all would wear off eventually. But yesterday reaffirmed that I really am happy to be here. It also taught me, once again, that you can be content anywhere as long as you have the right attitude. It is a simple concept, but one that can be convoluted and difficult to uphold. In fact, it was the simplicity of the day's activities that made it so special, and I believe that simplicity is at the crux of maintaining the right attitude about where you live.

This season, our business, Chace + Smith Photography, has had the opportunity to shoot for the nearby Whitetail Ski Resort. Because the day was supposed to be clear and mild, Ryan (my husband) decided to head up to Whitetail before dawn and try to capture some great sunrise shots for the company. I met him there around 9:30 a.m., as he was finishing up, to snowboard with him for a while. Mind you, we both snowboarded for free since Ryan works in the repair shop at the resort, and I have managed to get my hands on a few vouchers. If this weren't the case, we definitely wouldn't be able to take advantage of the resort's proximity to our home.

The sun was out and the first signs of Spring were in the air. We whipped down the mountain, filled our lungs with the fresh air while riding the lift, and felt 20 years old again (I always feel very connected to Ryan when we snowboard together). Around noon we decided we had better get back to town (and to work), but since we were feeling free and spontaneous, we thought we would stop for a pint and split a sandwich (keeping in mind that we are trying to live below our means) at the tavern on the square in Mercersburg. We drove the beautiful drive back with the windows down, sat at the bar at Flannery's eating our lunch, and talked to the various people we knew there. My sister, who works at the restaurant, happened to stop in. She joined us at the bar for another beer. I felt very connected to my community, enjoying its slow pace as the sun streamed through the tavern windows.

The rest of the day was balmy and relaxed, partially because of the weather, but also because I had allowed myself to get away from my routine for a bit. Everything seemed to flow; the fun was cheap, adventurous, and whimsical. It was a great day.

We live in a town with two stoplights, with under two thousand residents. Fun can be had anywhere (even on a Monday). Enjoy your town!

What makes your town or home special and fun?

Where Is Your Water?

Photo © Ryan Smith

Edward Abbey’s Desert Solitaire begins: "This is the most beautiful place on earth. There are many such places. Every man, every woman, carries in heart and mind the image of the ideal place, the right place, the one true home, known or unknown, actual or visionary. A houseboat in Kashmir, a view down Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn, a gray gothic farmhouse two stories high at the end of a red dog road in the Allegheny Mountains, a cabin on the shore of a blue lake in spruce and fir country, a greasy alley near the Hoboken waterfront, or even, possibly, for those of a less demanding sensibility, the world to be seen from a comfortable apartment high in the tender, velvety smog of Manhattan, Chicago, Paris, Tokyo, Rio or Rome - there's no limit to the human capacity for the homing sentiment."

When I was attending Berklee College of Music in Boston in the late 90s, my lyric writing teacher, Pat Patterson, began every semester by asking each of his students where his or her “water” was. He would explain that salmon have a homing device inside their nasal cavity that collects a tiny bead of water from the stream in which they are born. As they make their way to the ocean, then begin the long journey back to spawn in fresh water, this bead allows them to know when they have reached their home waters once again. Though I am not sure as to the scientific evidence of this, I am still drawn to the idea of each human having a “water.”

During the two semesters I took lyric writing with Mr. Patterson, I would invariably say “Mercersburg, Pennsylvania” when asked where my “water” was. At the time, I was dreadfully homesick for my hometown, and the life I had left behind, and these emotions only strengthened my homing instincts toward this place. Since then, I have had the great fortune to add several other locations to my list of “waters.” I am open to the idea of having several, though if I had to pick one, Mercersburg would be it. It is my one true home.

This place holds all the dear memories from my childhood, growing up in the most wonderful family, with siblings I enjoyed playing with (so much so that when we would have a snow day and got to stay home from school, it was the thought of getting to play together all day that made us squeal with delight, not necessarily the snow). My mother would have classical music playing, or my father jazz. The smell of cooking food floated through every cranny of the house. All was right in the world when we were together in our house on California Street. This was before the tough years of college, when I couldn’t understand why I should leave my family who I wanted to spend every moment with, and the town I loved so much. It was before the realization of many big dreams, and enormous responsibilities. It was the simplicity of living that I have sought ever since. It is the reason I returned again and again, and now the place in which I wish to stay, possibly forever. But I had to swim to the sea to know this.

Other locales that are near and dear to my heart?

• Highland Lake, Warren Center, PA - a magical summer home for my whole family, relatives, and cousins on my mother's side. I have spent whole summers there, or just a week at a time, throughout my life. This place is literally and metaphorically one of my most precious "waters." It's a close second to Mercersburg.
  
• Bainbridge, New York – hometown of my Mother, and the place where I continue to spend my Thanksgivings and Christmases. It is the Currier and Ives, picture-perfect image of Yankee winter holidays, and a place I continue to develop a relationship with.
• Walton, New York – hometown of my Father, where my Grandparents’ big, white house was the muse for big imaginations, lots of baseball games, picking blueberries, and walking through sunny fields and gardens.
• Moscow, Idaho – where I finally escaped the confines of city life in Boston and experienced for the first time the vast, natural beauty of the Northwest, met wonderful friends, explored my hippie/outdoorsy side, and learned about the many inner workings of the two-year-old (12 of them at a time, actually).
• Austin, Texas – my second “hometown,” where I still live in my dreams, longing for the excitement of this charming city when life on the “farm” seems slow; where many long-term friendships were formed, and where my relationship with Ryan was given the room it needed to blossom into a marriage.

Of course, I can think of many places I have traveled to or visited that sparked a flame in my heart, but never had a chance to get to know beyond a brief, albeit lovely, encounter. Regardless, I am continually piqued by the instinctual nature and influence of the homing sentiment in our lives.

As Pat Patterson would say, “Where is your water?”

Migrations of My Youth

My husband and I have made some relatively significant transitions in our young lives thus far. Apparently I had a secret yearning to live the life of an Army brat - though my parents are teachers - considering that I have moved all over the country since leaving home after high school. First came Boston, then Moscow, Idaho, then Austin, Texas. I feel fortunate to have sampled so many diverse regions of our great country; I have rubbed elbows with cowboys and cowgirls, Mormons, Mass-holes, hippies, and yuppies. From the East Coast to the Third Coast, I have become well-versed in moving my life around and making big transitions.

What does it mean to move? To migrate? To transition? I have found that it has most often refreshed my spirit and forced my eyes to see new things I may have missed before - about life, people, my country, etc. Any notion of a schedule goes out the window for those days/weeks/months during which you make the transition. It is also a perfect way to break down any semblance of a comfort zone one may have instituted during a settled period.

Likewise, in migrating, I have met many migratory people. These people, including myself I'm sure, seem to view life from a wide-open perspective, allowing people into their lives with ease knowing that to make the time in a certain location memorable, you must "love the one you're with," so to speak. My migrant friends also seem to be very good at staying in touch, perhaps more than my more settled friends do. We are invited to each others' weddings, send each other Holiday cards, and make the occasion phone call just to talk. Oftentimes, I end up speaking with a far-away pal more frequently than one who lives just down the road.

What is an aspect of moving that I am not so fond of? Potential for years of something best expressed in Portuguese: saudade, an amalgamation of longing, nostalgia, homesickness, yearning, particularly in regards to a place one may never return to. I knew that I would return to my roots from time to time, for visits and vacations, but would this place always linger in my heart in such a way? Would I ever be successful in moving back for good? And would it be all that I had hoped an dreamed it would be? For there is a certain romance and mystique surrounding a place for which one might experience saudade. I feared that I might return to this place and find myself wanting to leave again, forever searching, longing, and migrating.

So far, my transition home to Mercersburg, PA, to this place I have longed for, though I cannot always explain why, seems more resolute than others, especially now that we are moved into the farmhouse. It is a rental house, but a house nonetheless, one where we could grow a family, live below our means, and save for the future. There is much promise in this house. Whether my Army brat tendencies will start to itch, only time will tell. For now, I just want to be here, sit in this quiet, spacious house as the world spins around me, walk along horse pastures and watch deer as they watch me, unblinking - let my late 20s be a time to contemplate migrations of the past and the stillness of today.

Ryan and I play with Sadie during our first snow

Our new home!

Creature Comforts (Part 3): Paring down: SHOPPING

Photo Ryan Smith ©

Continued from Paring Down, an introduction:

In regards to shopping and material possessions, how do we pare down without denying the happiness that can come with abundance?

I’m not going to deny it; sometimes money can provide happiness. As much as I am proud of my frugality and aptness at paring down, buying new things does provide a certain satisfaction when it comes to embracing and expressing my identity. But it is the simple enjoyment of each item I acquire that allows me to be mindful of when I have enough and when I just have too much.

I know a lot of people who buy something just because it is on sale. This is an easy way to quickly attain too much. I try to go shopping with a list of things I need (and “need” is subjective isn’t it?) and only buy those things. If something is on sale, great! If not, I usually base the level of need on the price and either take it or leave it. I try to be a selective and mindful shopper; as I hear my products beeping across the scanner at checkout, I pretend I am a kid in a candy store, ogling at what I am able to buy.

Ultimately, balance is the goal here: my $300 pair of cowgirl boots from Austin, Texas is one of my most prized material possessions. But though they sit on a shelf to be admired, I wear them (and dance in them) several times a week and have them repaired and cleaned often. Lesson: splurge when the time is right, but cherish the heck out of the purchase and admire it daily. Once you stop admiring or wearing an item, which often happens, give it away. This will de-clutter your mind and your closet, providing a new perspective on the wonderful things you still hold dear.

Also, take the time to go through that overflowing attic or that spare room full of stuff you’ve been meaning to sort through. Donate or recycle anything you no longer wear frequently, or that no longer serves an aesthetic or emotional purpose in your home. You will hopefully find that paring down is even more rewarding than filling up your shopping cart. Don’t save it for a rainy day! There’s no better time than now to initiate positive change in your life.

P.S. This also applies to buying gifts. Give fewer, more meaningful gifts – be excessive with warm complements and good cheer!

What are your most prized possessions and in what ways do you cherish them? What are your shopping habits and how do you pare down in regards to material possessions?

Where the Heart Is

I am home. My sails are still flapping in the breeze, but my ship is in port. I have not felt this grounded in a long time, having only visited my hometown several times a year for the past decade. This is the ultimate cure for homesickness: coming home. I have unpacked the homesickness that has been dwelling in my belly for years and have stored it away in a drawer, perhaps in safe-keeping for future journeys. In its stead, the warmest feelings of reconnection with family, friends, and myself have been taking shape over the past week or so since we have arrived here. Something as simple as a bike ride reminds me of how it felt to be 15, tracing the same paths across town that I did in my youth, feeling the same burn in my thighs as I crest a familiar hill.

I left my hometown of Mercersburg, Pennsylvania when I was 17 years old, having just graduated from high school, on my way to college in Boston, Massachusetts. Every move after college (from Boston, to Moscow, Idaho, to Austin, Texas) involved, all at once, the excitement of the next step and a deep yearning for my hometown. Would I ever be able to feel at "home" again? Was Mercersburg the only place I could feel that way? What the heck was I going to do in my hometown if I every moved back? Despite my longing for it, moving home always seemed to be more complicated than moving somewhere else far, far away. I convinced myself over the years that "home" was an elusive figment of the mind and could be achieved anywhere if the conditions were right. But I never felt the strong sense of home I was looking for and knew deep down that in order to find out if Mercersburg really was "home," I was going to have to move there. My husband, who is also from Mercersburg, and I agreed that it was time to stop talking about moving and just go for it, despite the risks involved (mostly in regards to our business). Luckily for us, the opportunity presented itself and the move was facilitated quite nicely.

So, was I right? Did we really need to take the plunge and move to Mercersburg (or at least the Northeast) to truly feel at home? Well...yes, so it seems at this juncture. Despite certain aspects about the town that we could "live" without, it really is a special place, and many of my friends who grew up here agree (and have moved back over the years as well). Not everyone grows up in a town to which they long to return; I feel fortunate that I have and look forward to finally taking advantage of the many positive aspects about living here. Here's a quick list of wonderful things I have noticed about the area since I've been back (particularly in comparison to my former, albeit great, life in Austin):

• We are now surrounded by green, voluptuous mountains with little valleys and towns in between
• The corn is as high as an elephant's eye; the fields surround me as I go for walks with my dog
• I only have 3 bars to choose from (yes, I actually like have less choices), all of which are within walking distance
• There are only 2 red lights in Mercersburg and therefore only 2 chances to run into a traffic "jam"
• Big, fun cities such as Washington, D.C., Philadelphia, and New York, are just a hop, skip, and a jump away, easily satisfying any urges to live the city life again
• Rent is cheap, and beer is cheaper

I could go on, and I may in later posts. Obviously, being closer to family and many of my old friends has already made the move more than worthwhile.

Note: My posts may be lacking in visual aid for the time being, unlike many in the past. I will hopefully have Internet access on my own computer soon, from which I will be able to post photos. For now, I am at the whim of family members' computers and Internet connections.

I am so glad I can keep up with my blog anywhere I go and hope all my readers are having a great summer!