Home Again (An Epilog)

Chicago, IL

It’s always comforting to be on familiar ground after traveling to new places. We call it our “comfort zone” precisely because it feels so safe and secure, and after a while the fear of leaving it can outweigh the thrill of experiencing something new. The smell of vanilla dryer sheets from the disheveled linens strewn on my mattress is familiar and comfortable. It’s good to be home, to wake in my own bed, to feel the restlessness fade into the familiar. But I already miss the smell of starched linens and motel room disinfectant.

I wake up at 7:00AM to the sound of traffic on the Eisenhower expressway outside my window. This new apartment is surprisingly homey even with all these unpacked boxes littering the floor. I make myself coffee and eggs and sit on the patio to take in the vibe of morning commuters heading into the city. A pretty blonde girl bounces down the sidewalk and she reminds me of Paris Hilton and I imagine what Terrie might say: “What a slut!” which would get me thinking, “That girl reminds you of something that irritates you and you felt compelled to share. I happen not to agree, but thank you—sharing these observations is how we relate to each other. That’s what we do. There’s no outsmarting it.” But I would hold my tongue. Instead I’d smile and nod in recognition and enjoy the scenery.

It’s odd how distance—physical, emotional, intellectual—can make things so clear and at the same time so mysterious. It seems that keeping a fresh perspective on those familiar, comfortable slices of life enables a richer and fuller appreciation of all that we are and all we might be. In Zen there’s a concept called “beginner’s mind,” where one sets aside one’s assumptions and expectations, judgments and preferences, and simply takes things as they are. With practice an enormous sense of delight and gratitude in the sheer privilege of being able to participate in the wonder of the world emerges. All things are at once cloaked in familiarity and infused with possibility. In the west there’s a related concept called “intellectual curiosity” where one investigates things for the sake of the investigation, not for the sake of the investigator. Both ways are open and accepting and defer critical judgment. The essential difference is that the beginner’s mind doesn’t care about the investigation at all. It takes in with awe and wonder whatever disrupts one’s attention but chooses not to seek. It politely refuses the possibility of boredom and dwells in the immediacy of experience.

I feel an intense sense of beginner’s mind about all my past dramas and those yet to come. From the void of meaning we construct meaning, fill in existence with social obligations and self-disclosure and critical commentary. It’s a privilege to participate.

My first day back in the real world and I feel the urge to create some structure for the week. I break out my organizer and plan a schedule for the week. I plan who I’m going to call to catch up, what appointments I need to keep, when I’m going to write…but it doesn’t feel right. It's funny because I guess I don't mind having a plan and being organized (on the trip my plan was, "get there, get back, have fun"), I just hate being constricted by the unwarranted rigidity of a formal plan. I’ll ignore it and follow my explorer’s instincts for another week at least. But it’s there if I need it. Somehow that makes me more comfortable.

Cherry made me promise to wash her. I should do that this afternoon. Tonight I have my seminar on evolution and religion at the Lutheran seminary on the south side of town. I’ll drive Cherry to the meeting if I can get her overheating under control. She’s been a faithful companion on this trip, becoming more familiar and yet mysterious along the way. I love her for that.

At around noon I go downstairs to collect my backlog of mail and run into my artist friend McCoy and her dog. I’m happy to see her and she greets me with a big hug.
“How was the trip?”
“It was…interesting.”
“Good? Bad?”
“Um, not good or bad really,” I hesitate debating with myself. “Or maybe both. Interesting anyway. Have you been to Santa Fe? You’d love it there. We should catch up.”
“Great let’s go.”
“Where?”
“Starbucks, you can tell me about your trip and we’ll walk Buddy.” The dog perks up, wagging his tail at the sound of his name. I love her spontaneity and even though I promised, Cherry’s wash will have to wait.
We leave the lobby gabbing about apartment drama, her newly-fired assistant, and how tan I got. She lets Buddy run ahead of us and I ask, “What kind of dog is Buddy?”
“Buddy?” she asks and he freezes, looking back at us. “He’s a good dog!” she praises in a dog-owner baby talk coo. How strangely familiar, I think, and I wonder if she knows how perfectly right she is.
“He is a good dog,” I parrot, patting my lap to call him over. He’s friendly and frisky, but more to the point he’s an attentive disruption that lets disclose my opinion socially and benefit from a dose of halo effect.
“He sure is,” she says as she puts his leash on. “So did you get laid?”

I like the tone this conversation is taking. Cherry warned me that the trip isn’t over until I wash her. That wash will have to wait a while.