This post was actually written two months ago on my way back to Floyd, VA. to prepare my studio for a new renter. I wrote this piece to read at Spoken Word on Saturday, April 21st. The Tankas which I include represent my connection with a dear friend and extraordinary poet, Mara Eve Robbins, who has dedicated her time to bring Spoken Word to a Floyd audience.
Hunched over, thoracic spine almost parallel with the floor, the grey haired woman shuffles through the locker room with a multitude of plastic bags, stuffed with more plastic bags, they are tied to her rolling walker, available for collecting stuff I imagine. She speaks to herself, yet seemingly is speaking to others. I wonder where she comes from, what she is doing here at a fitness center. I flash back 27 years when I was traveling, alone, across the country. I was at the Red Rocks amphitheater, searching for a ticket to see the Grateful Dead. In the parking lot, I met a beautiful man, also traveling, but without a destination. He was traveling to somewhere, anywhere. Neither one of us had tickets. He was there because it was a place to connect with other lost and wandering souls. The curious, gullible and impressionistic young woman that I was, I took him in and we traveled for a while together. He had no home, no family, no job, but occasionally he earned $100 or more a day doing some sort of theatrical pan-handling. Considering that I was traveling on a very small budget, he suggested that I use university campuses for showering when needed. It had worked for him as well as a membership to a national fitness center where he would hang out, work out, shower and meet potential prey. He was homeless and strategic.
This wild eyed, grey haired woman spoke of the man from the psychiatric ward that was trying to interfere with her plan. He was in the whirlpool and he was trying to sabotage her mission. I thought to myself that she was very clever, yet, because she was seemingly deranged, most others in the spa avoided conversation with her. I spoke with her, but conversation was impossible. It was a one way street heading in the wrong direction. I felt fortunate to have a warm home to return to.
My warm home is approximately 2800 miles away from what it is I continue to call home. Ten months ago, I made a decision to move across the country to Portland, Oregon. Here I am.
Crescent moon reflects
early morning wake up call.
Today is my time.
Natural rhythm, open flow.
Greet the day with pen in hand.
I have lived in Portland, Oregon for just over nine months and I feel settled. My needs are met. I am comfortable. I feel safe. I feel supported. Can I call Portland my home? In context I refer to my house as my home, yet, I continue to call Floyd, Virginia my home. I question, what is home? Where is home? Today, I sit and begin writing a new blog post on Home.
The early morning crescent moon is visible from my bedroom window. The light is gray. Dawn beckons me to arise and begin the day though another sleepless night weighs heavily in my bones.
I rest for a while in bed feeling grateful that I have a dry, warm, soft bed to lay in. Slowly, I begin another day writing - tea in hand. It is Sunday, my day of rest. A 45 hour work week of nannying with two predicted challenging days of managing a difficult child engulfs my creative space. I practice minute by minute being in the moment and let it go for now and focus on the beauty of this day.
Peaceful time alone
interrupted with chatter
of this and of that.
I welcome conversation
with those I share my home with.
Morning greetings and chit chat with housemates, a quick check in of work, relationship, concerns, plans for the day, we go our separate ways with separate plans. There is respect in this household for one another’s individual lives. I am comfortable here.
It is warm today and it is dry. The rain is not called for until later in the day, so I take the rare opportunity to sit outside on the rocks surrounding our fire circle. I am surrounded by trees on a one acre lot and a beautiful house, now my home. The wrap around porch protects me on the rainy Portland days. Today, the birds sing and the sun is peeking through the clouds. Briefly, my tranquil morning moment is interrupted by a raging rant. From my position, I see a man with headphones walking with a forceful, fast paced stride along the busy road in front of my small paradise. The road bends dangerously left and right. Long ago this was a dairy farm. The only remnant is the stainless steel vat behind the storage shed and an old barn sanctioned as a house across the street.
Rumbling trucks pass by, birds continue to sing and squirrels chatter, dogs bark annoyed with something. Traffic does not cease until the buses stop their run. Six hours of city silence is enough though I slumber through it.
The day unfolds and increases in volume of sounds and movement. I have grooved ruts of daily routine throughout the week. I savor this day that flows organically without structure within a timeframe. I relax into the feeling of openness in this day. This day of rest is a holy day. It is the day I reserve for creating sacred space.
There is a sharp contrast to where I came from, living rurally in the mountains of SW Virginia. And, I chuckle. I live in the SW Hills of Portland, Oregon. I am off the urban grid with my winding roads and steep embankments. About as close to home as I can be living in the city. At least, I imagine. A creek runs through the overgrown bank and healing herbs are emerging in the unmanicured corner of the lot. Speaking with my house mate about managing the area, he suggests a chainsaw like attachment on a weed whacker to take out the blackberry thicket and to later kill the roots this fall. A past memory flashes and I see a friend in Floyd dressed from head to toe in protective gear thrashing through brambles gathering gallons of blackberries and later making jam. I smile. I question what it means to live in harmony with the land. City dwellers need to control the environment, plan the design to allow Nature to reside within their perimeters. I am a mountain girl living in the city. It is where I reside. Can I call Portland home?
I am happy here. There is a calmness in living simply with very few possessions and few expectations from those I interact with. I am moving in, slowly, observing, choosing how I want to engage. It has been my mode of operation to dive in and do, whatever there is to do. That pattern exhausted me. I am re-creating, re-designing and I now live in an area with a multitude of possibility and endless opportunities for learning and growth. This is why I am here.
I am following a path that set course years before I began creating a family. Once my first son was born, I was intent on establishing a home to raise my children. After seven years, I landed in Floyd, Virginia. I lived in Floyd for over 14 years.
A couple of days ago, I returned to Floyd after being absent for nine months. Flying into Roanoke, I saw the neighborhood I grew up in and the college I attended after graduating from high school. The feeling of deep roots grounded me and stabilized the uncertainty of what I may feel when I walk into the house I once called home, the house in which I raised my children who are now grown and living on their own.
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