It’s always strange when I happen to be reading a book that explores and dissects the very issues that have recently bubbled to the surface of my brain - or it could be that I chose to re-read this favorite because some part of my subconscious knew that reading it would help me work through something. In any case, stars and books aligned, I’ve been mentally immersed in contemplating my relationship to geographic place – that is, re-evaluating what I want or need for myself and my family where I live.
I can link this near-obsessive contemplation to a minor event that happened recently that made me realize what few real and close connections we have to people where we live. But I’d be lying if I said that parts of it haven’t been brewing for a long time – finding it difficult to meet people here and form a sense of community, longing to give our kids the experience of living near relatives that we both had growing up, the lifestyle change of having relatives so close by to help with childcare and general emotional support.
Perhaps the latter two points have only been hypothetical until recently, and therefore the fun of living in a college town won out over making the move toward family. E. has nudged me in the direction of this move for a while, to which I always retorted with, “Move to god’s waiting room, where our neighbors will either be over 55 or will move to their ‘winter homes’ each year?” I then would proceed to tout the endless opportunities for fun in this area – the live music, the restaurants, the political protests, college lectures, the festivals and fairs. All of which we’ve been enjoying less and less of each year either because we are getting older and more boring, or we’ve gotten a bit wiser with money. Still – I remained enthralled with possibility just outside our door if we ever wanted it. I feared taking that away would be the end of fun as I knew it – or rather, the ever-present possibility of fun.
But, in choosing whether or not to move, do I fear the closing up of possibilities around me, or the chipping away of what I consider to be important parts of myself? Which parts of myself are enhanced by, or thrive on, place? How do I identify what parts of a place are the most important for me (and my family) to thrive?
E. and I moved here strictly on the basis of place. We had no jobs and didn’t know anyone here. We chose this area because of its culture (realize this was in relation to near-Northern Maine), outdoor activities, live music, good food, education, and geographic locale to 4 surrounding states, many with similarly-fun activities waiting to be discovered. Not to mention that we could be queer – and queer parents – with little a thought to how we would be treated in most parts of our everyday lives. I fell in love with this place – and thought we’d likely be here forever.
Perhaps love at first sight is also blind – because over the course of 4 years I’ve figured out that this place is not perfect – as of course no place is. We meet friends our age and they move on – to graduate school or to live in some other place better set up for permanence – and I realize the great parts of a college town are also its downfall – people move in, people move out. Our friends have come and gone – and one day I look around and see that what this place has never been able to offer me are lasting relationships and community. And meanwhile age has worked its magic and gone and changed my priorities while I wasn’t looking – and now I long for a sense of community so much I’m mystified as to how anyone finds or creates it. We can’t even leave our cats for a weekend – no one we know well enough to ask them to shove a couple pills down our cat’s throat each day while we are gone. Granted, living on a college campus probably hasn’t helped much, and perhaps if we’d been living in a neighborhood things would be different. And not that I’m holding cat-sitters as the standard, but I immediately get a picture of how hard parenting will be without close connections and a sense of community. I can’t deny that family who we (miraculous as it may be) actually enjoy and are close to provide a ready-made mini-community. Particularly in terms of our kids, E.’s sister-in-law said it best once: “No one takes care of your kids like family.” And I know first-hand it’s true.
And what is it again that I love so much about this place? We’ve maybe seen live music once in the past year, and rarely take advantage of the many offerings this area has, save for some random hikes and pond swims here and there. For the amount of times I take advantage of the “unique” offerings here, I could find those offerings in a new place. And then I’m left with the question: “What parts of our selves depend on place?” More specifically, “Who will I be if I’m in a new place?”
There are, of course, many things I love about the Cape – the beach, the rural-ness, P-town, the tiny unexpected pockets of locally-owned health food stores and activists, not to mention the warm, cozy UU church we were married in. And, of course, E.’s family, who we are very close to. And this is where, for the first time, my thinking shifts from myself to concerns outside of myself, to consider what’s best for my whole family. Perhaps this is the crux of my emotional breakdown the other day – a sort of reckoning with myself that I can no longer afford to only consider mine and E.’s needs – a thought both terrifying and invigorating.
But I fear leaving this place – perhaps because I feel I’ve become it – so much that I fear leaving it would be leaving myself. When we moved here, parts of me were able to be fed on a daily basis just by being here. Would I lose myself if I left this place?
The author of Drinking the Rain struggles with this very question – since she becomes quite a different person when she spends summers in a different place – and worries if those parts of her will remain when she has to move. A wise friend assures her that place has no power to dictate who we are, and quotes the Buddha: “You cannot travel on the path before you have become the path itself.” Her friend assures her:
“Everything you learned here will go with you. And what you haven’t yet learned you’ll be able to discover somewhere else. That’s what it means to be on your path – your understanding will just keep deepening.”
Of course, I am me no matter where I live. Perhaps what we think we need from a place mostly resides within ourselves – we just have to notice and nourish it. And if a place is truly not able to enhance what we value, we can always leave. But I need to trust that I am becoming the path I’ll soon be traveling, and will already have the tools necessary for the journey.
And, I know, the irony that I’ll soon become another young person leaving this place is not lost on me. At least I’ll fit in really well when I hit retirement age.
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