Heart Nomadic

Letting go is its own path

I feel like I am not at home anywhere. The most “mine” place I’ve ever had was my childhood room where I would be surrounded by things that reminded me of stories about the Revolutionary War, Native Americans, and the Civil War — things like feathers, mandalas, and dream catchers alongside replicas of historically significant documents. All reminders of the grand story that humans are a part of. As a boy, I could just close the door and be lost again in time.

This fall I turn 45 and we hope to be building a new home by then. The boy inside me remembers what he used to want: a room with a big window for north light, dark paint on the walls showing between artworks and bookshelves, and nooks filled with interesting evidences that we have lived, that we have had a part in the grand story. The reality — though still very good — is we will only have room for laundry and food, supplies and storage. No grand view, no library or study. No place to dissolve into the story. There will be central heat and air, running water, a roof, and hopefully the best sound insulation we can afford (rockwool?). 

These compromises dredge up old feelings and remind me that I've never felt at home anywhere, never settled. As a boy, I knew that things were not my own. My parents could come and go as they wished. In college, there was always a roommate. In marriage, we lost two houses for completely different and tragic reasons, never living in either one of them for very long.

 Today in thinking over the plans to build on a tiny lot between two other small homes and all that will have to be designed out to fit the narrow lot, I'm challenged again to let go, to embrace the fact that my part in the grand story may be to wrestle with discontent. I'm simply not at home. The battle between overcoming circumstances and relinquishing desire makes me tired and constantly humbled. So, I let go. I give up the desire to build a home, a life, just the way I want. So many people have done very same, but until you loosen the fist you've made around your life it's hard to understand. I know I didn't. The memories of the ground we gave over time may only resurface when we, yet again, plan on this time being different. This time I will get the room with a large north window, dark paint, and bookshelves. This time we will have a kitchen with actual prep space. This time I will wall off the world when I get home from work. This time we get what we want.

But I've let this desire go as well. My heart is nomadic, it seems, and such ideas are shimmering mirages. Letting go seems to be its own path. I'm writing today from my mother-in-law’s home where we've been for a few years. Today, with quiet time at the only table in the house to myself, I have worked peacefully, choosing the references for my next paintings for a big upcoming show.

There was coffee. Our dog lies on the floor. The sounds of cool air through the nearby vent, the refrigerator, and an old clock ticking are soothing. There is a breeze outside. It is summer in Tennessee. It is enough.