A Home Away From Home Away From Home

My husband and I have been married a little over six months now… and yeah, that’s still weird to say. It seems to me that much of our generation is having a hard time picturing ourselves as “grown-ups,” which is probably not unique to our generation, but we feel like it is our personal struggle because we’ve got social media and Buzzfeed to document and hashtag it. I won’t claim to be immune to any of that, but as a nod to an older time and in a show of solidarity, I did change my last name to my husband’s. It was a very “grown-up” decision I would absolutely make again, but it’s a part of the newlywed experience that is still a bit foreign. It’s a constant reminder that life will never be exactly the same again – and it’s never the most common occurrences that are the most jarring. My new “teacher name” (Mrs. New Last Name instead of Ms Old Last Name, but always with the same, slightly whiny tone) washes over me as it constantly comes in waves. Signing my name isn’t difficult… unless I can’t remember whether or not I’ve had time to change that particular account yet. No, it’s always the little things that still stop me in my tracks: the new name on a prescription from the pharmacy staring at me in its bold, all-caps official way; the new introduction as “my wife, Amanda” at a social gathering, or the subtly surprising pangs of nostalgia when I encounter a piece of my “old,” pre-husband life.

I don’t run into my past self too terribly often since we’ve been together almost four years now and we’ve integrated our lives fairly smoothly. But once or twice a year, we go visit my parents in my hometown. It’s an objectively terrible place to be most of the time; there is absolutely nothing for a visitor to do there in the winter (and we are always there for Christmas) so I usually spend most of the visit worried that my husband may leave me over some idiot thing a family member said, or perhaps just out of sheer boredom. I always feel like I’m the less interesting one in our relationship, so in the craziness that comes at the end of a ten-hour drive, I worry that maybe it will just take him seeing me in my natural habitat for him to realize the error of his ways and leave me sobbing on my parents’ doorstep.

That’s the thing, though… It IS my natural habitat. My head understands every argument against EVER living there again, and believe me, I still never will – due to the abysmal, unrelenting cold if nothing else – but my heart still aches every time we leave because subjectively, there is so much to do there. Memories lurk in every closet, around every corner, and even where I’d least expect them, embracing me in a rare and bittersweet familiarity until the car door slams and it’s time to go because it’s no longer solely my choice to stay. It’s a very odd kind of heartache, too, being torn between things you love and knowing that they are mutually exclusive. Not the kind you experience when you’re single and pining, or when you’re dating and waiting… This is a gentler, fleeting, yet more profound kind of hurt.

It’s an experience made more difficult because it’s a feeling my husband – the person who knows me best in the world and is often nearly identical to me – cannot understand. I was a transplant before our relationship began, so this is really only a new iteration of the journey that began for me when I moved away for college. But this life we have created together is more a permutation of his past because we still live where he grew up, basically. He doesn’t have to get nostalgic for home – in fact, he never gets the chance because we see his parents almost every week. It’s not often that we have these disconnects (we are quite happily married for numerous reasons, after all) but when it does happen, that just makes it all the more lonely.

Now we’re looking to buy a house of our own – yet another definition of home – and that prospect is terrifying on an entirely different level. My head swims with the names of financiers and inspectors, and I’ve developed an irrational fear and hatred of Homeowner’s Associations. Yet, I am filled with an overwhelming sense of hope. Perhaps this is the step that will make it all real: the prescription bottles, the party introductions, the whole grown-up shebang. I hope it will be a place where we can showcase and harbor our strengthening marriage. I hope it will be a place with more good memories than bad ones. And most of all, I hope it will be a new place we can both be nostalgic for when we’re away, so that leaving home can truly mean coming home, regardless of the direction we’re driving.

***This post was originally created for and posted to a dear friend's collaborative blog: www.curesforcuriosity.wordpress.com Please go visit and check out the other "curious" categories!

Undone

I'm sure I'll be returning to this one since there's really a lot more to it and it's been lurking in my notebook for some time... but I'm oddly drawn to this short, ambiguous, unedited (slightly e.e. cummings inspired?) version that just came out. So I'll throw it to the wolves and call it an entry for today. Look for some edits after 27 more commutes are done (who's counting?).


coulda woulda shoulda

funny how things work out –
the universe has a way of taking care
of itself, its inhabitants
call it karma, fate, faith, what have you
but don’t pretend for a second
that we hold the reins

April 18, 2011

Learn something every day

Did you know/realize that rubber bands get hot when you stretch them out? I feel like I'd noticed that before but always assumed I was just crazy. It's usually a safe assumption, but it turns out there's some kind of bizarre thermodynamics involved based on the way they're made.

Although I'm not experiencing that heat on this chilly evening, I am feeling decidedly rubber band-like. I've been stretched a lot this year, in many ways, so this particular metaphor has been in the back of my mind for awhile. I'm not sure one evening has done it any justice, but here goes.



rubber band

distance between two points stretches,
tension increases, fibers flutter under stress

when sides snap back together,
resistance relaxes, evaporates with the heat

April 15, 2011

Bedtime again

It snuck up on me - dinner with a friend ran long (did I really expect anything else?), and I didn't even think about this until somewhere on K10 as 10pm approached. But, the first thing I found on the Poetry Foundation seems to fit well with much of the conversation had between two young teachers at dinner.

Easier said than done, Lizzie, but I'll keep giving it my best shot.



On Education
By Elizabeth Bentley 1767–1839

December 1789
When infant Reason first exerts her sway,
And new-formed thoughts their earliest charms display;
Then let the growing race employ your care
Then guard their opening minds from Folly’s snare;
Correct the rising passions of their youth,
Teach them each serious, each important truth;
Plant heavenly virtue in the tender breast,
Destroy each vice that might its growth molest;
Point out betimes the course they should pursue;
Then with redoubled pleasure shall you view
Their reason strengthen as their years increase,
Their virtue ripen and their follies cease;
Like corn sown early in the fertile soil,
The richest harvest shall repay your toil.

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/182498

Country Mouse and City Mouse

The third picture could have taken me in many different directions; remembering my past as a child of the Dakotas, or speaking about being drawn back to my Kansas roots, or some combination of the two. But when I sat down to really look at this picture, I couldn't help but feel like the farmer was experiencing a moment of blissful freedom - and that was certainly something I could relate to.

As I mentioned in yesterday's post, A. and I made the decision that I should keep my apartment in Lawrence for another year. Many of my friends and co-workers have stared at me, wide-eyed, insisting that this is a huge mistake, and do I really want to keep making this ridiculous drive, and I could be so much closer to work and to A. ... but sitting here in the quiet of a warm and windy spring morning with windows open wide, I know I made the right choice. Although my second home is in midtown KC, Sunday mornings there never smell this amazing or feel this peaceful. Maybe I should just show the naysayers this poem.


Metropolitan Claustrophobia

You have taught me to appreciate
being wrapped, not only in your arms,
but in the busy, noisy rhythm
of your beloved city.

I see, now, how a place so tightly packed
can also be open and loving,
and that sounds of happiness
can drown out the sirens.

But like a northern Dixie Chick,
I need my wide open spaces

where, eating breakfast,
all you can hear is the wind
and the crunch of granola.

I breathe easier
when my left elbow hangs out the window
(far more naturally than yours)
and my bass beats loudly –
not to impress, but because
I assume no one else will hear.

I am from the city, too,
but in my city, I could always see the sky,
smell the earth, and hear the changes of the weather.
Open prairie is an undeniable part of me, even now.
So though it pains me each time I leave you,
nothing beats the freedom of coming home.

April 3rd, 2011

Following Dr.'s Orders

I don't like the way this turned out at all, but this is the first list of things I thought of, and I'm not one to ignore directions. 50 miles is starting to feel a lot longer than it used to, especially with these reminders all around.


Traces

Driver’s seat still pushed back too far in the morning
Headlights expose flat tires on a men's bicycle
A borrowed pen travels atop half-graded papers
(1) waits patiently in Gmail inbox
Grows to (11) throughout the day
Smiling eyes and stifled giggles
Curious looks on little faces

Radio man complains for 33 miles
A different smart-ass voice echoes silently
Neglected houseplants beg for water
2 bottlecaps rest where arms belong
Dinner for one, amateurly made
A single ceramic plate hides amongst the plastic
TV squawks to fill the silence

Forgotten overnight bag lies full of Sunday
Poorly-aimed Kleenex loiters near its destination
Glasses rest on shared books under a darkened lamp
Old Spice drifts faintly across suddenly spacious blankets
Another day spent alone ends, but
A promise still lingers in my ear for tomorrow –
See you soon.

January 18th, 2011

Repeat Track

I don’t know how driving has so quickly become a form of therapy for me – I’ve been doing it for less than a year. Somehow, I went for 22 years without any desire to get behind the wheel; this seemed rational at the time, but I no longer understand. I suppose I was driven by the fear and intimidation bred by avoidance. Nowadays, I rely on the point in each day where I slide into the familiar grooves of leather, adjust the windows and vents to bathe in the proper mixture of fresh and manufactured air, and find just the right track (be it via radio, disc, or auxiliary) to free something within me as I fly over hills and careen around corners.

I abused my beloved car pretty badly this evening after an atrocious shift at work. I slammed the pedal to the floor at every green light and onramp – 6000 rpm borders on the red zone. 64 maxes out the stereo volume and the subwoofer dangerously shakes the rear windshield – I half expected it to shatter like my sanity as I screamed angsty lyrics with the window down, unseasonably frigid air rushing through my hair and lungs. Thankfully, Maria spent her formative years in the tender care of a nun, so she’ll have no choice but to forgive me, especially when I take her for a spa day at Crown Toyota next weekend.

This is the first, very rough draft – please suggest changes. I’ll appreciate them in the morning.



“the scene ends badly, as you might imagine
in a cavalcade of anger and fear”
- The Mountain Goats, "This Year"



Relief

floats

like a balloon,

nowhere to go but up -

swelling,

seemingly invincible,

but always so fleeting and fragile.



A sideways look, an ill-placed word…

the outside pressure overwhelms again and

collapses back to a more natural state.

Tension wrinkles what once was smooth;

anger tingles just beneath the surface.

Goosebumps rise as

pores tighten to keep it all inside.



Minute hand delivers on its promise -

leather and plastic absorb the curses

as rhythms of the road and

rhyming rants

coalesce -

building toward

release.


May 7th, 2010 (edits May 9th, 2010)