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"?

Longing for Winter

I love winter.

I am befuddled by the tendency to wish for spring. What would spring be without these long, cold, dark, wistful months? It is easy to overlook the beauty of this season:

Bare bony trees running the edges of the rolling hills and dales.

Cold creeks under stone bridges, their black banks contrasted with patches of white snow.

Even the frigid winds are beautiful, as are the warm, cozy houses when you stomp in out of the cold. It is a time for introspection and creativity. It is full of mystery and death, but its stark beauty warms my heart.

All photos © Chace + Smith Photography

I wrote a song about it today, called Caribou. It is a song about the season, but also about the fear of someday possibly losing winter, either from global warming or my own passing. It is about a longing for winter and normalcy.

Oh, winter, have you left me?

Oh, winter, have you left me?

In the ash black dirt beside this creek

Next to the body of this Caribou

I will lay this body down to sleep

Oh, winter, will you promise me?

Oh, winter, will you promise me?

Will you visit me in my next life?

Will you offer me some good advice?

I can see it in your pale skies

Oh, cold wind

Will I never see your darkest days again?

Will I never hear you silent nights again?

In your gloom I watch my life unfold

I see my courage in your quiet streams

And all the beauty in your deepest snows

(Come again snow, come again snow)

© Larissa Chace Smith, 2/19/09

Someday, maybe I'll share this song with you. Or should I say, The Hello Strangers will.....

Confessions of an Overachiever

I have officially stretched myself to the max. After all my musings about time management, saying "no" to certain obligations, and balance, I have gone against all my suggestions and am thus at my tipping point.

How did I lose the balance in my life and time that I was so close to attaining? When I said "yes" to not 1, but 4 new voice students at our local private school. I feel I am a talented musician, but am not prepared to share my knowledge with four students. I currently have 3 different sources of income. Taking on 4 students seemed the best way to make extra money. But because I am essentially teaching myself how to teach others, I realized (last night in a moment of terror at the realization of what I have gotten myself into) that this would be a much larger endeavor than the amount of money I will be paid for it.

How do I know I am stretched? Because I have noticed a significant change in the way I complete other tasks and projects (such as writing in this blog). I am not able to put as much effort into just one thing because I have so many other projects going on at the same time. I freelance write, volunteer for our local arts council, help my husband run his business, work for a screen printing and embroidery shop downtown, and now have taken 4 voice students.

I fill my time with all these things for two main reasons:
1) Money - we are working hard at making our photography business succeed and I am trying to take every measure to help supplement our income.
2) Fear (here's the clincher) - fear of not being important because of having too much time on my hands or not accomplishing enough.

I thought I was making headway in the way of #2, but I realized last night that, almost without knowing it, I surpassed the boundary of what is "enough" for me and my time. I am confessing this to you this morning because I have to face my mistake today and make the necessary arrangements to bring my list of students down to 1. This is the amount I know I can handle with grace and focus. This is the balance mark.

I will learn from my mistakes and move on to a more balanced life.

We all have our tipping points and our balance marks. Have you had a similar experience to this one?

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 2): Be a Pioneer!

In my last post, I asked the following questions: How can we help but opt for the comfort that surrounds us? And is there a happy medium? Ultimately, at the heart of these questions lies the purpose of this blog: to live each day to the fullest. I got some wonderful comments in response to this topic, and I invite you to peruse them and supply your own thoughts. In this post, I will continue my Creature Comforts series and offer insights and personal experiences in order to explore how one might find a happy medium between comfort and precariousness (several proceeding posts will feature more on this topic, so please stay tuned).

BE A PIONEER!
The first time I ever felt like a true pioneer was when I moved with my boyfriend-now-husband from the East Coast to the wilds of Idaho. This would be the first time I would live in a place where none of my family members (or probably even ancestors) had ever lived. Likewise, I couldn’t help but feel like a pioneer in Idaho, knowing that so many settlers had traversed the central plains of our nation to reach this wonderful land of extremes: big spaces, towering mountains, and rushing, icy rivers. Vulnerability took on a different meaning going from city life in Boston (where I went to college) to a state whose entire population hovers around 1 million. I could dare to do things in Idaho that I never would have back East: snowshoeing to the top of Moscow Mountain just outside of our town and snowboarding back down through fresh powder, barely seeing another human all day; rafting across the Salmon River with friends and hiking to hidden hot springs up the side of the canyon, then rafting back down the river in the dark to our private beach where we slept in the open air; traversing 60 miles of river through the Labyrinth Canyon of the Green River with three friends (OK, that was Utah) battling spells of cold rain, slower than expected currents (therefore lots of rowing), reading stories to keep our minds off the slow pace, and living out of a small raft equipped with only a cooler, some gear, a Groover, and my guitar. I might add that none of these activities cost very much money, though good ol' resourcefulness was required to make them happen.

The thing I took away from these marvelous experiences, and the lesson I wish to impart on my readers, is that I was in fact opting not to be comfortable in all three of those scenarios (actually, very uncomfortable in some circumstances). The uncertainty and precariousness of each situation allowed me to define myself as an adventuress, a pioneer, and a more fulfilled person. Ultimately, we do have a choice in the matter, and choosing to challenge the boundaries of our comfortable lives as often as possible is the wisest option if you are interested in seeing how full your life on this earth can be. It is certainly not easy to go beyond one's zone of comfort, but I'll never forget how it felt to slip under crisp, white motel sheets after 5 days on a cold, murky, and dreadfully slow river. For it is the juxtaposition of vulnerability and safety that make being inside and outside of comfort so worthwhile. Indeed, the great part of living in a society that is so navigable is that you can find a happy medium and live a comfortable, daring, and meaningful life. It all depends on what "meaningful" means to you.

Of course, you don’t have to go “into the wild,” so to speak, to be a pioneer or adventurer. The goal is to find opportunities or circumstances that will spark that ember of bravery that lives inside of you, master it, and put it into action. This can involve an enlightening personal journey through nature or paving the way for change in human rights, cancer research, or environmental policies, to name a few.

Being a pioneer is not something that is necessarily accomplished in one day or sitting, so it is important to think of small steps to take that will allow a pioneering goal to come to fruition. And don’t think you have to climb Mount Everest to be a pioneer. The smallest acts can often make the biggest difference.

My latest pioneering achievement was moving with my husband and business from Texas to our tiny hometown in Pennsylvania. It was a risky and precarious decision but I have already noticed the benefits that came with it. I feel more connected to my community, family and friends and see small but wonderful things happening everyday.

What are your pioneering achievements or goals?
In what ways do you opt to go "outside" of comfort?

Creature Comforts: allowing and denying ourselves in modern society (Part 1)

I lay on the floor of my best friend’s apartment, my cheek resting on my left hand, the other hand clutching a hair dryer. On the floor beside me, swaddled in a green fleece blanket, lay my friend’s six-week-old daughter, Louisa. My husband and I were taking the baby’s portrait and were amused to learn that the heat and white noise from the hair dryer would calm her enough so the camera could capture her in a peaceful moment. I held the hair dryer about a foot from her head and gently coaxed the warm air back and forth. Her soft hair lifted in response to the dryer as she wrinkled her brow, a reaction to this new sensation. Then she closed her eyes and cooed. We all laughed, reveling in her comfort. Louisa was still and peaceful as the camera shutter fired loudly. Not even the large soft-box flash could stir her now. As I lay next to her on the floor, I realized that as an adult I yearn for the same creature comforts of warmth and white noise. Watching this tiny infant beside me confirmed the notion that we as humans instinctively yearn for, indeed demand, comfort from the moment we leave the safety of the womb.

For all that, there are these little things we like to call “rites of passage” that we must go through in order to grow as humans. Whether society, family, or our egos mandate it, undertaking these rites undoubtedly involves facing a fear or multiple fears, and coming out on the other side a stronger, more capable adult. For some, the simple act of leaving the house and going into public is a rite. For others, it is climbing Mount Everest.

Several days ago, I happened to catch an episode of “Oprah”. The topic of discussion was the story of Chris McCandless, the young man who journeyed into the Alaskan wilderness to abandon his capitalist roots and live off the land alone, an act many of us in North America would find bold, if not asinine. Incidentally, he did not survive for long in this state, dying of starvation. To find out why, I recommend you read the book about Chris’ journey called “Into the Wild,” by Jon Krakauer. It is truly riveting. Incidentally, Krakauer was a guest on Oprah’s show that day, as was actor Sean Penn, who has recently made a movie based on the story. When asked what they wanted people to take away from the book and movie, both Krakauer and Penn emphasized the need for our society to let go of our comfort addiction and do something meaningful with our lives. The idea of comfort addiction gave me pause, and led me to ponder the paradoxical nature of allowing and denying ourselves comfort in modern society.

Undoubtedly, the sheer popularity of the Chris McCandless story and the can’t-shake-it reactions to it are a result of our growing need as North Americans, during such unstable times, to get back in touch with our natural state - that primal moment when our warm, sopping wet bodies entered the frigid air of the delivery room. Some destiny was waiting for us “out there” in the wild, and we went for it, and have never gone back or been the same since. This is essentially the first of many rites of passage that we must surpass throughout our earthly existence. Beyond this point, however, we generally have a choice as to which and how many risks and adventures we wish to take. And this is what Krakauer and Penn were getting at: that many of us are opting for the cushy comforts of our modern lives in lieu of living full, daring lives.

The paradox in this argument lies in the baby’s reaction to the hair dryer and my empathy with it. If we instinctively yearn for comfort, why should we deny this instinct and purposefully force ourselves into murky waters? After all, in our plush society (and yes, those were very plush chairs the guests on Oprah were sitting in), we actually have to make an effort anymore to be uncomfortable. Going into the wild (or other such daring acts) can actually cost a lot of money these days! So how can we help but opt for the comfort that surrounds us? And is there a happy medium?

I will continue this discussion in my next post.
In the meantime, please share your thoughts on this topic!

What I am afraid of admitting I am afraid of

Today I made a list. For those of you who know me, this would come as no surprise. But this was no ordinary clean-out-the-fish-tank-filter type of list. I started compiling a list of everything I could possibly think of that makes me afraid.

We all fear things; fear is one of our most basic emotions and it fuels our paths through life, whether or not we decide to use it to our advantage. But we are often afraid (puns come free with this post) to admit the things we are afraid of. Many of us try to perform activities that conquer our fears, or take us out of our comfort zones. Yet half the time I feel I am afraid of so much, from the mammoth to the minute, that I don't know how to go about conquering anything. We are told to "face" our fears, but how do we take this metaphorical advice and turn it into something tangible, something we can hold in our hands?

Make a list, of course!

So I did, and the results were enlightening to say the least. I suggest you try this exercise: either type or handwrite (whichever you feel more comfortable with), stream-of-consciousness style and without stopping for 5 minutes, a list of anything that you are afraid of...anything! I started my list with the phrase, "I am afraid of," and went down the page from there. See what you come up with; you may arrive at some interesting conclusions. I won't share with you my whole list, since some of it is intensely private - and that's the point of making the list - but I will feature a few items that I found to be of interest to demonstrate the variety of fears my brain conjured up with only a bit of coaxing:

I am afraid of:

• My dog chasing a squirrel into a busy road
• Cellulite
• Global warming
  
• Not helping other people enough
• Worrying too much
• Responsibilities
• Being too much like myself (??)

Can you relate to any of these? I have found, since compiling my fears into somewhat of a tally, that I can now try to connect the dots and see which fears directly affect the others and so forth. I hope to be able to make some concrete observations about how I react to forces that influence my every-day life, then make a plan of action to work toward either letting some fears go, or using them to my advantage. I also suggest adding to the list whenever something pops into your head. Or try the exercise from time to time and see how your fears change or disappear.

Please feel free to share any of your findings if you try this exercise. I'll be interested to see if anyone else benefits from it as I have. Don't be scared, give it a try!

(Aren't free puns great?)

Time On My Side

My dog, Sadie, walks up to the screen door and looks back at me. “Will you let me out, please?” her eyes ask. I open the door and she walks out with clear intent: to flop down in the big patch of late-afternoon sun pooling on our balcony floor. She does so with no other purpose in mind but to lie down in it and soak it up, save for the occasional fly buzzing by that catches her attention. I watch as her ribs start to expand and contract at a slightly faster clip. Eventually, she sits up and is in full pant, but still seems to be drinking up the sun like a pint of Guinness, eyes fluttering in canine ecstasy. Time progresses for her in a different way than it does for me. She is an inspiration, not just because of the simplicity of her nature, but because she only does one thing at a time. And because she does not have to go to work, “accomplish” things on her to-do list, or think ahead to what she is going to eat for dinner, time is never of-the-essence for her.

My relationship with time, on the other hand, is much akin to the relationship I once had with my 6th Grade Reading teacher, a nun and former catholic schoolteacher who always seemed to take everything a little too seriously. This was public school after all, not purgatory. I always had one eye on her, thinking that at any moment she would sneak up behind me and catch me doing something I wasn’t supposed to (like slipping my shoes on and off distractedly under my desk, god forbid!). I was rather petrified of her, actually, and would get so nervous some mornings before catching the bus to school that I would get sick to my stomach and ask to stay home. Yet, for some reason, I always wanted to get on her good side, get to know her a little better, and try to understand why she was so…well, mean! The fear of her, after all, came from the complete lack of control I felt I had when I was in her classroom. Even asking to go to the bathroom felt like original sin. Funny how being nervous all the time does little to bolster one’s reading skills. I don’t remember a single book I read that year. But I made it through, relatively unscathed, with one lesson to hold on to: there are some things in life you cannot control, you just handle them as best you can, try not to vomit, and move on. Time is something I will never be able to control either. But time and I need some relationship counseling. I want to have time on my side again.

In high school, I used to sway my hips back and forth and sing, “Tiiiiiiiime is on my side, yes it is!” a line from the Rolling Stones song. Time felt friendly and constant back then, so it seems from my current perspective. More and more, when I take a moment to check the clock I experience a second of utter shock and horror (flash back to reading class), wondering what happened to the last hour of my life and thinking how much I still want to do. Admittedly, I put a lot on my plate each day and expect to get most of it done. I never do, and never will, and I have yet to accept this. I still haven’t learned my lesson.

There is hope, however, in that we DO have agency over our relationship with time. Meditation is one of the ways in which I can purposefully slow my breath, my mind, and thus, my perception of time. Because time is relative and elusive, what matters is our perception of it and the steps we take each day to foster a loving, not fearful, relationship with time. I continue to work hard at this because I feel it is essential to living a good, happy life. Like my panting dog on the balcony, I will strive to go through each day with clear intent and focus, and just try to allow life to happen as it is meant to, not how I plan for it to be.