I’m homesick. Not for Kansas. Or Oregon’s ill-lit garret and steady rain. Or the terror I knew every day facing juniors in my US History classes at Francis Scott Key High School. Or the fear I experienced during Dave’s drinking years. Or the times when I failed to hold rogue Preservation Office staff to account. For sure, not the moments when Mother and George and Dorothy and Dave died. Or when I had to wake up in the mornings after each unbearable loss.
I am hungry, lonely, instead, for a thousand sweet “before” moments: standing tall and gathering myself before our first debate tournament. Donning my tailored green gabardine Park Service suit and walking through the National Cemetery to Gettysburg’s Visitor Center. Waiting outside the small conference room to defend my master’s thesis—in a way-too-short dress—on edge but confident in what I knew. Manhandling Interior’s massive bronze doors to report to the Chief Historian of the National Park Service. Hovering at Dulles to offer Bob a ride home in the rain and an alternative to Melody. Treasure hunting for antiques when I moved into my first apartment. Waiting for Ian Tyson to take the stage. Watching Dave bring five-year-old Emily and hippity-hopping four-year-old Amanda to the truck.
I ‘m homesick for those moments of anticipation, the pure intertwined alchemy of fear and delight. Cornucopias of promise and apprehension. The “nexts” –both ordinary and beyond my wildest dreams. How the hell did a milquetoast Kansas girl end up on a ferry to the Island of Patmos–about to meet thirty powerful friends and talk with Rodney Crowell. Or walk through the Tumacacori Visitor Center to greet Nick and Birdie, savor caldo de quesa soup, and begin 50 years of fellowship. The unimaginable “before” moments. The moments hugely pregnant with possibilities.
I’m homesick, too, for those early days of sanctuary—the short years of childhood when Paul and Esther and teachers and our church framed the composition of my days. When the adult influences in my life provided a gentle, seemingly fair and thoughtful structure to my behaviors and my thinking. Not dictatorial; not belligerent or harsh, but kind–offering up a world that was manageable, full of curiosities and beauty. A world that I wanted to grow up into.
I’m homesick for the exquisite comfort of Dave’s tall and fit body, those broad shoulders and strong hands. For spooning or—as we had to up the North Fork—squishing (Dave’s parents provided only twin beds). For the last of the day’s silliness and troubles that morphed into the refuge of shared sleep.
I’m homesick for the Nation to which I’ve belonged—to its improbable stories. To its flawed heroes and its abysmal sins and its moments of brilliance. To a Nation not yet tarnished by our current cruelty and selfishness and stupidity and illegality.
Homesick, in other words for what I once had or what once existed—at least in memory. And that which is unlikely to come again. Or ever to come again with careless and carefree acceptance of all that might lie beyond. Exactly like the “homesick” we use more traditionally: feeling the tug not just of place but of time and opportunity.
Years ago, when Dave’s dad—George—was dying, we took turns staying with him through the evening and night. I puzzled over why George spoke often of his mother and what he remembered of her life. Why, I wondered, would this 86-year-old distinguished man—college professor, nationally known speaker, wise and clever granddad, confident park ranger—be returning in memory to his childhood home. Now I understand a bit better.
Laments of age? For sure. Depression? Not really. More a kind of yearning. A wistfulness. A memory-laden wishing. For me, brought on by night-bound dreams in which places and people in my past appear with greater intensity than usual this spring. Triggered too by daytime flickers of “I remember” when a photo or a bar of music or a phrase catches my attention. It is a sweet—though sometimes bittersweet—reliving. It is also grounding—my “now” with so many “thens.”
When I take a breath, I see my homesickness as a testament to just how glorious and interesting and secure my life has been. Rich in memories of so much that was lovely and fascinating. I treasure these emotional mementoes—these bouquets of feeling that intertwine an hour from the past with today’s projects or a spell with Tuxedo on my lap.
Too, my life is still full of “before” moments. Lovely amalgams of fear and apprehension and promise. I have work to finish and amazing trips to anticipate and sweet dinners and cocktail hours to arrange and both cats to cuddle and grandchildren to hug. Light that lingers now towards eleven on the cusp of anticipated peaceful nights. Helena’s ring of mountains and clouds that lift my eyes to those horizons and the country beyond. Essays that introduce themselves to me for capturing.
And waiting for me—as it did for George—as it does for every being–the most dazzling, unknowable “next” of all. The moment when we’ll step off the earth into the universe. ©
