The Canonical Nomad

Two Months at Sea

I get emails that ask questions of my whereabouts and dealings of recent. I even get emails asking if we're still hiring or carrying certain books. It always makes me smile. One email stood out last week...someone wrote "I wish you were still blogging".

But what would you want to know? What platform and approach does my writing now occupy in the world at large? It's a busy place with no shortage of opinions and musings...That said, my blog was never a literary blog so the pressure to highlight books isn't there. In it's truest form, this blog has always been the passionate ramblings of a (now) 30-something. Albeit, organized and properly punctuated. So, if not for my own purgative purposes...I want to capture the journey now after two months of sailing (Ironically, it took the pilgrims about that amount of time to reach the new world).

It would be foolish to think that I have spent these months after leaving the dock staring out at the horizon with a Pina Colada in hand...I am working hard to cross the equivalent of the Atlantic in mid-winter wind gusts while manning the rigging alone. It would seem that closing a business is more than taking down shelves and locking the door behind you. Everyday I deal with mountains of paperwork, friendly letters form the State of Michigan, hordes of messages and mail from vendors that still require payment...Checks going out. No money coming in. It is indeed, one of the most difficult clean-ups I have encountered and I am more aware of Newton's law that states "for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction". It will be many years before the reactions for all of Nomad's action cease...and that makes me tired to think about.

BUT there have been moments when the wind dies down and I stand at the bow during sunset, allowing the sea to lull me back and forth. I'm soothed by the vision of home and made energized by the new territory ahead. It is all unknown. Even a bit scary and depressing at times. But I'm okay with that. I would turn back...not for anything. When people ask if I miss it, I have to restrain the certainty of my answer. Not for one day have I missed the amount of tenseness I was functioning under and hair pulling and sleepless nights. Not one morning have I longed to make the drive in and put in a full day again. I am more certain everyday that we made the right decision to pack and go.

So, there it is. I'm mid-Atlantic. Fighting everyday to cut the dang anchor and untangle the sails...but the view is awesome and the call of home so precious. Abraham Cowley (exiled English poet) wrote, "Curiosity does, no less than devotion, pilgrims make." And I am, above all, still very curious.

A Piece of Pie for Mom

A mother is a person who seeing there are only four pieces of pie for five people, promptly announces she never did care for pie. ~Anonymous

I got a message from my mom today. I get a message from her every couple of days. Most of the time, I don't call back. Not right away, anyway. Not out of disregard but out of the feeling that she understands more than anyone on this planet why I couldn't call back just then. There have been many seasons, indeed entire years, when I did not understand nor admonish mom. In those seasons, I made decisions that would carry me far from her and far from myself. Indeed, we are family and in every family there are humans- that is to say imperfection. Hurt. Regret. Dysfunction. But in those pains, a chance for understanding the total inventory of one's life. Indeed, I have been blessed with more chances for understanding my own inventory than I have had the fortitude for-- Yet, anyway.

I may have mentioned that I was raised by a single mom. She didn't really care for pie either, at least most of the time. It has not been until recent events in my own life that I have come to glimpse the amount of times that she actually made pie to serve to 4 oblivious kids while she sat with a watering mouth. She was far from perfect but for all of her faults, I can say this: I always knew that I had a lion in my corner that sat ready to pounce on anything that threatened my life. My potential. My happiness. A best friend, a spouse nor child can never replicate that level of instinctual love--never.

I've been reading The Rest of Her Life this month. What it has done is put me back in perspective of the continuum of mother-daughter-mother of a daughter...the reality of those overlapping, complicated relationships. I was in a car accident when I was in my teens that resulted in tragedy [which is also, coincidentally, the outline for this book]. I've been reflecting, retrospectively, on what my mother must have gone through during that time. For anyone that rallies claims that fiction is pure fantasy or lacks opportunity for application in our lives...well, they don't read fiction. This book has taken me to a place that I had neither expected nor found anywhere else in recent years. I respect my mom more tonight for having read fiction. I want to live more fully with my daughter tonight for having read fiction. I'll never really know what it meant for my mom to watch the pain that I both caused and was going through, while I spent the energy I had pushing her away. I've looked at my daughter this week and thought about the years I hope to be blessed with ahead. As she sleeps tonight, I imagine all the times that my mom wanted nothing more than to shelter me from pain-- and the ache for the times that she could not. And still can not.

This week, mom, I want you to know that you are the one person on this planet that I know has always been and will always be on my side [when I do call back]. Even when you weren't. Even when I didn't want you to be. Even when I don't think you are. I've taken you for granted but I know you understand--even when you don't. If I could, I bake a whole pie and deliver it to you on Sunday. I-- at the very least-- owe you that. 

White Pine Houses

My evening brought a foray into the world of my favorite blogs, having just finished three books in quick succession...I had to catch up on my "sick preoccupation" (see earlier blog). I started at one I love to revisit and glean from occasionally. It linked me to another point on another page. And then another. And another. I was seven observations deep before I came up for air. The news has done an interesting thing these days- for those watching and listening. Such massive, intriguing entanglements; such discourse coming from some...the thing that is amazing is that wisdom and truth are questioned at every turn. Wisdom seems to jump out from one perspective and then has the potential to be completely countered and stifled just as quickly as it came. Kinda makes me ambivalent. The tendency to nourish uneasiness is too tempting for us. The option seems to be to pour gasoline upon the raging bonfire of current events. The inclination to be trite and pithy or clever and evasive seems to be all that we have in the face of often menacing reports. Gas prices, election, Borders, war, religion, spirituality, economy. I have to keep reminding myself that I have permission not to live in fear.

Sometimes I want to sleep in...Sometimes I wish I had my nose in the clouds or fingernails in the soil, oblivious to the currents at the base of this river we're in. Yeah, I guess I make that choice everyday by limited the news that streams in. I catch myself wondering when it all got so complicated that I'd rather turn off the light and go to sleep than read more or talk about it. Is it my age that is making me resentful of the complication all around? My station in life? Stress levels? I could swear that I was just sweeping and designing White Pine rooms in the forest floor behind my elementary school like last week. Good was good. Bad was bad. You were in. You were out. Laughter came quick. Tears just as easy. Pain was surprising. Joy was common. When you disagreed you might hit your best friend and then hug them later that day, tingling with satisfaction in knowing and being known by them. And the whole world held promise, even when it was dark. Especially when it was dark.

We don't have to fear. I'll see you at recess.

The Story

I drove home in the dark tonight listening to The Story on NPR. My headlights lit the guard-rails of snow on either side of the road and I settled in for the 25 minute drive as The Story started. I felt, as I always do after deep snows, comforted by the thick blanket of winter. The new landscape all around came as a welcomed break from what can be a monotonous drive these days. I felt pleasantly bundled in hat and gloves gripping the steering wheel with the voices on the radio as companions. The Story began with reflection from a woman that experienced something that I did as well, many years ago and I assumed that I would have good company the entire way home if I could go there again with her for a brief while.

Most of the time I think we are ambivalent about other people's stories. After all, we all have one. If there is one thing that I have grown used to lately it is hearing other people's stories. The counter at Nomad sometimes serves as a quazi-therapy couch where we are all rather relaxed and open; me, the staff and our patrons. And most of the time, we barely nick the surface of what really lies behind the life of the other. What we share in our brief passing is subcutis to the network of life behind our persona. I've come to realize that we're blessed if we really know another human being in this life...If we really listen to them. It takes grace and patience, that of which I'm in short supply. But Listening is an Act of Love...

So I thought about it. As I sometimes do. Okay, my brain never stops so of course I thought more about it. When we listen, like I listened to The Story tonight, living goes to a place where we have no choice but to grow. Another's story becomes a small part of ours because if we learned anything in kindergarten, it's that life isn't just about us. And if we read stories, likewise, life is richer...complex and worth every effort to find resonance or purpose in another's experience. I encourage you to pick up a copy of Listening is an Act of Love, a new compilation by the Storycorps Project. Their whole purpose for 4 years has been to capture everyday people sharing their story in 40 minute recorded sessions. The book comes after 10,000 interviews; each unique and candid, honest to the point of being beautiful pieces of prose. You have to hear these.

I also caught wind recently of a bookstore in Alaska who has hosted evenings that invite people to come in and tell their "scar story". Right there, bare the physical scar that you have and tell the story behind it. It all began after one staffer was telling another about her scar. The listening staffer then revealed her own and they compared their wounds. It was blogged about and it took off. 18 more stories followed on their blog and a then full blown series of "scar story" evenings followed. All because of people's stories. I think Nomad needs a Scar Story night...what we would learn is that our collective story [yes, in Jackson] is worth stopping everything to listen to.

28

Age 28.

Sometimes reflection can only bring one thought: Life is bizarre. The nature of coincidence that surrounds life on this planet has ominously woven the number 28 into my experience. Death and the age of 28 seem somehow coupled. While fatalism is not my cup of tea, I've definitely been forced to take notice.

It really began in October three years ago when my incredible brother-in-law, a pro golfer, was killed suddenly at 28. A year a half later, my amazing 6' 4" cousin was killed in a car accident outside of Scottsdale a couple weeks before turning 28. And Saturday, my mom called the store to tell me that marathoner Ryan Shay had fallen in Central Park during the Olympic Trials and died. He was 28. It might not seem that the latter fits into my experience except that I grew up around Ryan. He graduated with my brother. He was my cousin's first serious boyfriend [and for a time, his sister dated my cousin who died in Scottsdale].

Like I said, kinda weird.

In tribute, I remember traveling the couple of miles from my mom's house in Central Lake to where my cousins lived, routinely passing Ryan Shay on the snow dusted [or sun beaten] road. January in Northern Michigan: not just winter but Winter. We could see our breath in the car, condensation clinging to the base of our windows. Snowbanks encased the country road ahead but Ryan's silhouette was in the distance. Up and down Old State Road or downtown.

I've caught up on his last decade via Google, having not seen Ryan since his graduation in 1997. I was somehow consoled to find out that he was an avid reader, as if reading ensured a more well lived life. I found the following and sat before my computer screen completely paused by the words in Michigan Runner:

...And the Jean-Paul Sartre influence on the young marathoner? It turns out Shay's favorite book - he's an avid reader of philosophy and biographies - is Sartre's Nausea. The influence of a dead, French, chain-smoking intellectual on one of America's top marathoning prospects isn't that odd once you hear Shay explain it.

"I'm an existentialist," he says matter of factly. "I like that outlook on life. [Nausea's] about a guy who really doesn't know what he wants out of life, and that's what the nausea is in his day-to-day life. He's so confused as to his purpose in life that every day-to-day action, socializing with people on a daily basis, he just doesn't know what it's for and it makes him sick. He finally finds out what his purpose in life is and the sickness goes away. It's about someone finding what they want to do and doing it - and it makes your life that much better."

Without trying to wax poetic about reason (because I don't believe there is any in the face of a close sudden death), it would seem that relentless kid on the snow covered road found what he wanted to do there and made life that much better while doing it.

My thoughts are in northern Michigan this week. The place I will always call home. The place where people are hurting deeply right now, along those roads. My God, I am so sorry. My thoughts have turned to my brother in law and my cousin again. To that sharp, empty pain of the world stopping upon hearing the news. The sinking memory of going from the availability of them to complete physical separation in an instant. From future plans and potential to smiles through tears about all that was. 28, you three lived it well. We should all be so driven, so wonderful. And we'll see you soon- whether it's on the course or along the open road, in the sunrise tomorrow or beyond our rainy window next week...in the face of family here or when we're standing face to face again in complete understanding of it all.

Three Remain

As a "good" American mom in this year of 2007, I spend a substantial chunk of my evenings after work or dinner reading with my school age children. It sometimes feels like that is the best good thing I am able to do for them these days.

I remember a time when I would try to engage my first born in story time at the close of the day. Ha! Nothing doing. He was (and is) a very animated boy who had far too many motes to cross and dragons to slay before laying down to hear Eric Carle's worm munching on leaves. But eventually, with enough animation and projection on the part of his parents or grandparents...he found humor in this nighttime ritual (especially when the venerable daddy would read). Where the Wild Things Are was about him and he got that. Slowly, we learned what would work for him and then he began to ask for it. Rarely does he now complain when we read or instruct him to do his own for classes. He's almost ten and yes, time has flown.

Down the hall, I have a little boy of 7 on the top of a bunk bed that is reading with such beautiful skill that it makes me well up with tears (and that is not said for dramatics)...it does something to you when you see milestones of your maternal labor manifest in simple moments like hearing your baby read on his own. I climb to the top of that bunk and still manage to get an arm around him as he reads about cats and mice, trucks and planes, Michigan Chills and thrills. He says, CaT or iT (with an extra capital T) and moves over each word like tires over gravel. Ah, but his rhythm is impeccable. I heard a program yesterday on the radio about early readers and parents who sing or read while the baby is in utero. I spent 9 months on stage singing when I was pregnant with that kid and every note now reverberates in him. He's writing and illustrating his own stories to which I envision the publishing empire that could be...But for now, I'll keep him in the crook of my arm on that bunk.

The next doorway reveals a little girl on her puffy bed flanked by a stuffed giraffe and white kitten with three or four books stacked, ready to read. She is usually halfway into one when I peek in. If I am quiet, I can catch her for a moment captivated enough to remain uncensored. I watch her little lips move as she makes up the story from pictures she knows well. She'll laugh, throw her face into her arms and then come up, checking to make sure that the giraffe and kitten understood the joke. We read "girl-er reads" as we have come to call them. Stories of other little girls, fairies, vegetable gardens, worn out rabbits and happy endings. My God, I wish I could keep her here. I wish I could make all the stories that she will know end in such ways and that each night ends with a sweet kiss, a smile from the lighted doorway.

I have fretted and scrambled to find this feeling in so many things and here it is: This is truly life for me, right NOW. To quote the rock band Bush, "It's taken me all this time to find out what I need". Goose-bump fulfillment in backlit doorways.

Each of them now asleep, I'll make my rounds and whisper goodnight. I'll recount the moments that really mattered today. And to my knowledge, only three remain.

Laptop

As I type, I'm allowing the emotion of violation to take shape right here before me. I work in a place that serves other people all day, each day for days on end. For nearly two years, we have put our needs and wants behind that of the people who walk into our doors (as any good business should) and today one of those people took something from our space. It meant more than that person might now know. One minute our business laptop sat in an office and the next it was gone. Except that laptop- the plastic and the wiring- holds no value to us compared to the hours of toil that have been poured out over it. The taker could not value the smiles in each of the photo files nor could that person know the three years of creating the essence of Nomad that took shape on it's keys. What they have taken is our history. There are picture files of children that have aged now and we won't be able to retrieve those moments. Of all that we will miss, that hurts the most. That is what brought the tears. Not the thought of some piece of equipment being unplugged and cowardly snaked from the building...that thought has just brought about a pity for selfishness and void of that person. Depravity comes to mind and for that we must all be profoundly sad at their core human condition. Only a very poor person, poor in dignity, steals.

In their degeneracy, they also have taken our trust in our beautiful customers. Cameras running, doors locked, second thoughts about people seem more likely now...we have believed that people here appreciated us for the effort in downtown Jackson. Someone didn't today and that is a mark that will not go away. To those people that have passed our offices and not ever had a thought to be selfish, we acknowledge you. We know that this person does not represent a majority but has merely nicked the wall for all of us to see.

At the end of this day, the only thoughts that remain for me are about karma. Nomad is not rooted in selfishness or indignation and so will not remain there in light of this day's events. A wise author and speaker has said, "How people treat you is their karma; how you react is yours" and that is where the rubber meets the road for us. What goes around, comes around and we will sleep well tonight.

Lake Superior

I have returned to life as usual today after camping in the U.P. for a full 8 days over the holiday. When we crossed the bridge, we quickly lost both cellphone and wireless capabilities (my husband has Sprint service attached to his laptop that allows us to go on-line anywhere- well, almost anywhere as we found out). We literally spent a week with no ring tones, no access to email, no voice mail. Nothing. At one point my husband turned to me and said over a popping fire, "I feel 10 years younger" and I concurred with nothing but a nod. Silence, true silence let us feel our pulses. During the trip I stood at the shore of Lake Superior several times, looking north into nothing but waves and sky and pondered anew how small I am. I walked grounds that I have not seen since I was about 15 while at summer camp and I found my own ancestors in cemeteries and in the face of ancient buildings where they immigrated to from Ireland, Canada and France. It was by far the best camping experience I have had to date and I am so thankful to have unplugged.

All the silence makes one consider what they are doing. The details of work, of home found a new place during the week; a much smaller, less urgent place. I was and am quietly scared to return to life as usual for fear that I will forget that place along Lake Superior. That place where I am small and life is too short to be tangled in a million details about things that pass away. Modern amenities and convenience, our tiny dramas and the way we think it all goes gets dwarfed in a place like this. Keeping up with whatever we are trying to keep up with seems futile, exhausting and worthless. As I stood above the grave of a woman named Sophie who died in 1908, life narrowed. She was my great, great grandmother. And I stood in awe of whatever was left of the body buried in the piece of earth below me. Not because she was wealthy or famous, not because I know all about her but simply because she was. An immigrant housewife, a mother to four, a devout Catholic, never knew electricity or running water, saw children die, buried grandchildren as well, walked this earth and then left. And that is all that is required of us. Because she did just that, I am. And everything that is me is tied into her having walked and then left. She tended what she was meant to tend and when it was over, many years later, we are here as a result of her. That is a deep breath for me. A customer told me a couple of weeks ago that at best, we are truly remembered for only two generations and then details are no longer available to our descendants. So why am I so concerned with all the minuteness around me when this too shall pass?

It has been sad to return to the inevitable of 2007. Cellphones going off and hundreds of emails to look at. Harry Potter hype, newspapers full of details that will change tomorrow, concerts on TV that seem hypocritical, junk mail piled on the counter, diet pill ads and more to do than ever. However, I have new ammunition. Deep breath, I've got my toes in Lake Superior at Autrain and no signal beaming from anywhere else...

TV Off Again

On Weds this week, two staffers and I took a TV into our basement and smashed the screen in. I'd like to say that it was a stress reliever activity but actually, it was for a display at the store. We're involved in Nat'l TV Turnoff Week (April 23-30) and our display is killer. But...smashing the TV caused a strange internal reaction in me and I pause every time I walk past the display. You see, the TV was one that I watched growing up. Its an old Zenith that my grandparents had in the home throughout the late seventies and early eighties and was passed onto me sometime after I moved away from home. Smashing it put some sort of closure on the memory of watching ball games with g'pa or playing the 'new' Atari with my little brother. The memories are deep and after losing g'pa this Feb, the tangible access to him has diminished...I had to silently apologize to him as we demolished his first remote-controlled TV. (I know he would see the value in the beautiful display for he read more than he watched any TV)...Still, this has made me realize how attached we are to our televisions. Its just an object. Its just light and wiring. Its just a box that illuminates. Or is it? When I announced to my children this morning that we would spend one week not watching TV starting Monday, the oldest was agast and disgusted...running to dad for a reprieve. When I see reactions like this, it is precisely the point. We are so attached to that dancing light and swirling sound that we can't imagine doing without it for even one week. Even I get a little panicky...when something is restricted, I immediately rebel. But this is a challenge to me, to my family. Can we be creative for one week and recognize how much life we are giving to the television? We're gonna try...Stop down to Nomad for more details.   

Integrity to the End

Integrity. I've been hit this week with this concept, the sheer magnitude of what it actually means.

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Integrity comprises the personal inner sense of "wholeness" deriving from honesty and consistent uprightness of character...It is often understood not only as a refusal to engage in behavior that evades responsibility, [it] aims at the discovery of some truth.

There remain very few people that I know who uphold their integrity, especially when stress or loss becomes a reality in their life. Without a doubt I can say that I knew one man that exuded this sort of consistency without compromise. He took his last breath on earth about a week and a half ago and I have been beyond blessed to be able to call him grandpa. So few people can be counted on to do exactly what they say they'll do, so few people are exactly who they claim to be (when no eyes are watching). But grandpa was. It is a piece of his legacy that has spurred me to look at myself, to ask some tough questions, to realign my promises and claims with who I actually am. In the end, I'd love to honor his memory by doing what he did. Living and dying in great dignity and faith with a host of humble contributions to those around me, without even knowing it. What an honor for people to say "He/she was exactly who he claimed and seemed to be, nothing hidden and nothing fabricated". My grandfather was a man of devout faith who ran an incredible race until the very end (welcome home, Grandpa and I promise to see you soon).

 

Last night I finished Sky Burial by Xinran. It's the Wander Cafe selection for the month of Feb. It is a novel that was written in response to the actual story of one woman's quest to find her husband after war takes him far from home just months after they are married. This woman, young and alone, travels into the unknown culture of Tibet (mid-century) to find him after she receives notice that he is missing. The story was told from a hotel room and the author had only a couple of days to capture the essence of this woman who sacrificed all that she knew in search of who she loved. And the journey is not a brief one. It lasts 30+ years in the plains and mountains of Tibet...in the scorching sun and barren landscape surrounded by a culture and people of which she knows nothing. At first glance she seems naive, desperate and foolishly brave but by the end of it all, when I imagine her looking back at a youth spent faithful to her vows and love; I think integrity again comes to mind. No one was watching. There was no movie script promised or the thought of gaining anything but a reunion with the one she loved. She didn't pack up and go home because it was cold or she was hungry. She stayed until there was an answer, just as she claimed she would at the outset of her journey. And I ask myself, would I? Would I give up my life in a barren, brutal landscape without comfort to find my lost husband? I'd like people to believe that I would. But I think I'd find a way to get back home, to call it quits and justify getting on with my life in comfort. My integrity needs a bit of work, my selflessness and commitment to faith require fine tuning. What I say I'll do needs to be what I'm doing. Amen.

Sky Burial is an absorbing read, quick and easy but profound. If you need proof of people true to their word or to see strength in character, grab a copy...you'll tear through it in no time.