Did I ever tell you about the night I was on my way to New York to be interviewed on national TV and managed to get myself locked inside a museum in Cleveland? This was back in the nineties, when I was living in Ohio and serving on the board of a minor downtown museum. As usual, I was running behind schedule, and squeezing in a late board meeting left me with barely enough time to race to my car, drive to the airport, and catch the last plane to New York. I spent most of the meeting fretting. Had I remembered to pack my hair dryer? Chosen the right dress? Brought the plane tickets? When the board finally adjourned, I dashed upstairs on some errand I can’t recall, probably leaving a note or file on the front desk. I do remember with hideous clarity being halfway across the dimly lit lobby and hearing the stairwell door swing shut behind me. And lock. That’s when I realized I was trapped. Every exit was bolted, and the building was deserted; the modest museum had no security guards at night, and in the five minutes since the meeting had ended, all the other board members had leapt in their cars to head home. The landline was shut down for the night, and in those long-ago days before the Internet and cell phones, this meant there was no way to contact the outside world. Scenes from various action movies tumbled through my head. Pick up a chair and smash a lock or a window? Use a lighter (not that I had one) to set off a fire alarm? No, what I needed to do was think. And then the opening lines from my favorite poem, Lost, drifted into my head. “Stand still. The trees ahead and the bushes beside you are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here.” I stood still. I thought about what was here. And my eyes fell upon the front desk. Aha! I walked behind it, found a key labeled “Stairs,” and made my escape. I caught the plane to New York with minutes to spare. I often think about that night and the lesson it taught me about standing still long enough to see a place not from my own viewpoint but from that of those who normally inhabit it. Over the years, that memory has helped me feel at ease in a wide range of unfamiliar places, such as the underground military bunker in Lviv, Ukraine, the Bigfoot Discovery Museum in California, and the Bhutanese guesthouse outhouse that I could only reach by scaling a high wall. (Luckily it was a moonlit night and there were ladders on either side of the wall, but still!) Those lines of poetry and those moments in the museum remind me that no matter how lost I may feel, the place I’m standing is familiar to somebody, and in fact may be their most cherished definition of “home.” A friend recently told Rich, “I don’t know how you two handle road trips lasting months. After three weeks I need my own bed. I need to be home.” But for many of us, especially expats, the definition of home has become pretty elusive. Is it one of the seven houses I lived in before I went to college? The old stone house outside of Cleveland where Rich and I spent the first two decades of our marriage? The apartment we’ve rented in Seville for 14 years? The cottage north of San Francisco where we spend our summers? In Real Simple, a reader suggests, “Home is a place you can feel comfortable cooking breakfast in your pajamas.” I love this definition, because it embraces every Airbnb apartment I’ve ever rented. And that’s my point. Home isn’t a place, it’s a feeling of belonging. And with luck and a bit of practice, you can take that feeling with you pretty much anywhere. Just because you’re not sleeping in your own bed doesn’t mean you have to feel alienated and adrift in the world. As the 17th century poet Matsuo Bashō put it, “Every day is a journey, and the journey itself is home.” When Rich and I are about to embark on a long journey, I often have a few days of the pre-launch jitters, rushing about feeling as fretful and distracted as I was that evening in Cleveland preparing to fly to New York. But once we actually hit the road, all that tends to fall away, and I find myself comfortably settling into a state of bemused wonder, waiting with a pleasurable sense of anticipation to see what’s around the next corner. And that feeling, as much as anything else, is what I call home. YOU MIGHT ALSO ENJOY
19 Comments
Tobey Hiller
1/2/2019 07:48:38 pm
Beautiful, Karen. And true. And I love the quote from the poem. Who wrote it?
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Karen McCann
1/3/2019 08:06:11 am
The author of Lost is David Wagoner, born in Massillon, Ohio but living most of his life in the Pacific Northwest. "[W]hen I came over the Cascades and down into the coastal rainforest for the first time in the fall of 1954, it was a big event for me, it was a real crossing of a threshold, a real change of consciousness. Nothing was ever the same again." He's won numerous poetry awards and, as I just learned, published 10 novels. One was made into a movie, Escape Artist, by Francis Ford Coppola. Wagoner's a very cool writer!
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Kim Day
1/2/2019 09:56:51 pm
I love the story about being locked in at the museum; your response in what could have been an experience of escalating panic was so zen like.
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Karen McCann
1/3/2019 08:13:53 am
I felt so lucky to have those lines of poetry when I needed them! So much of life is all about how the narrative in our heads defines the moment. Afterwards, I was vastly relieved that I wasn't going to go down in history as the board member who set off the sprinkler system and had to be rescued by the fire department — while missing her plane to New York. Dodged a bullet there!
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1/2/2019 10:07:18 pm
Thank you for the great lesson expressed in the museum story.
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Karen McCann
1/3/2019 08:18:36 am
So glad the story resonated with you, Alicia! Yes, you and I live international lives that keep us in near-constant motion, living out Hexagram 56. It's a constant reminder that we're all citizens of the global village, so wherever we are is home.
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Honey Ward
1/2/2019 10:22:55 pm
At the year end retreat I lead annually, we each choose a descriptor to go with our name for the new year. Most follow the rules with things like Sensational Sandy. Last year I took license and named myself "Wherever I Hang My Hat is Home Honey." And in the 12 months which unfurled since then, it is more and more the truth.
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Karen McCann
1/3/2019 08:20:27 am
What a marvelous moniker, Wherever I Hang My Hat is Home Honey. How well it defined this particular year of transition! What have you selected for next year?
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Trish
1/3/2019 08:17:16 am
I'm glad to know I am not alone experiencing the pre-launch jitters. I feel a little neurotic the days before with worries of packing and planning and then we are off and it all magically subsides as the adventure begins!
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Karen McCann
1/3/2019 08:23:57 am
The silver lining is that after countless rounds of pre-launch jitters, we can recognize it for what it is, and know it will disappear the moment our feet hit the pavement. Good luck and safe travels, Trish!
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Carolyn Saunders
1/3/2019 12:35:26 pm
Thank you for defining that little core in one's body - the sense of belonging. I've happily been an Icelander, an American and a Portuguese as well as my Scottish core even though I live so much of my tine in England. I can sit in a desert and belong if it is the right desert - I think there arises an inner peace within the joy and excitement of the adventure.
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Karen McCann
1/8/2019 04:53:59 pm
Well said, Carolyn. Yes, a sense of belonging — not geography or nationality — really define home. Your words remind me of a saying I had on my wall for years: "Peace - It does not mean to be in a place where there is no noise, trouble or hard work. It means to be in the midst of those things and still be calm in your heart." Not always easy to achieve, but something to shoot for!
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Lynne Rosa
1/3/2019 02:26:31 pm
just discovered your books and joyfully gobbled them up! Thank you so much for the stories, laughter, and wonderful sense of possibilities! My husband and I are moving to Cordoba in October and after 30 years together, are excited by our next adventure.
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Karen McCann
1/8/2019 04:55:48 pm
Lynne, I'm delighted to hear you connected with my stories, and that you and your husband are about to embark on your own adventure in expat living. Cordoba is a great town; I hope you and your husband will be as happy there as Rich and I have been in Seville. Safe and joyful travels!
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Nancy McBride
1/3/2019 09:57:34 pm
All so true!
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Karen McCann
1/4/2019 08:49:38 am
I love that story, Nancy. Reminds me of living in Ohio, where everyone I knew came in and out the back door, which was virtually never locked unless we were out of town. And even then everyone knew about the fake rock where we hid the key. Aren't you lucky to be able to keep life simple that way!
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Elizabeth
1/4/2019 07:52:03 am
Dear Karen,
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Karen McCann
1/4/2019 09:00:13 am
I learned it from David Whyte too, Elizabeth. Wow, what are the odds? He's an amazing poet and really knows how to make poetry come alive, doesn't he? I was fortunate enough to go to several lectures and workshops with him back in the nineties and bought many of his tapes. My favorite was The Poetry of Self-Compassion. Note to self: listen to it again at the earliest opportunity.
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elizabeth
1/5/2019 06:36:21 am
Yes! Kindred spirits, indeed. Thanks for the reminder--I'm going to revisit The Poetry Of Self-Compassion as well. Leave a Reply. |
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