Be Longing
Hello, friend. Thank you for joining me here!
How long does it take to feel you belong to a place? When I first moved to Los Angeles, the freeway system alone was so staggeringly complex that it took me three solid years before I knew where I was going on any given day. Moving to an entirely new community means relearning so many things. Where are the essential services? Who will I go to for healthcare? What are the resources that apply to my family in this place? Which dry cleaner won’t ruin my clothes? Who will be my friend?
When we first made our move to Minnesota in early fall of 2020, it was the middle of the pandemic—and in some ways it still is, I guess. The summer of 2021 provided us a brief respite when we could make more social connections and more safely seek out people and places in our new town. It was a relief to find possibilities that felt good! But, for at least the first nine months after we arrived, I suffered from imposter syndrome. I’m not sure if it’s because I am an actor, but it often felt like I was playing a part. The woman who changes her life and goes from skyscrapers to small town! Country mouse, city mouse! Think of all the movies where that happens. All the plays and books? It is a common theme for a reason. I think a lot of people, especially those with children, do change their lives in the middle, shifting gears while there is still enough gas in the tank to get somewhere. You look around at a certain point and ask yourself what you really want out of life while you still have life to live. That, combined with aging parents/grandparents, was a big motivator for the kind of change we made. However, this place was so different from where we came from that it simply did not feel real for a very long time. I felt like I was acting as if I owned a farm. Acting like the kind of gal who planted potatoes. Acting like someone who fit into our Norman Rockwell, gazebo-centered, tiny town. It was all so dang picturesque that it felt like exactly that: a picture, not necessarily a real life. But time changes everything. Time, and two winters. The day in, day out of life began to erode the fantasy. I *think* I finally feel real here. Mostly. At least, I don’t constantly feel like somebody is going to find me out and drag me away to where I really belong. I don’t feel like I’m playing hooky as often anymore.
So, I guess I live here now. It helps a lot that I have found friends and a theatre community. Building one’s tribe is a sure way to create a sense of belonging. You know what else helps? Acts of permanence. We started those as soon as we got here: planting apple trees, getting new driver’s licenses, enrolling our child at the local school. David has even joined the volunteer Fire and Rescue squad. But, I do believe the fact of our unfinished house has delayed the satisfaction that should follow relocating. The exhale when it’s done can’t come until it’s done. I keep wondering about the little piece of me that remains unsettled, and then I remember that we never finished moving in. It has been a constant state of impermanence. There are 4.5 rooms out of 12 that are serving the purpose that they are intended to serve. I say “point” five because the parlor is kinda/sorta a play/family/TV room, as it is supposed to be, but it still houses boxes in one corner, crazy floral wallpaper, and a graveyard of homeless side chairs. In addition, it hosts a massive, built-in, plywood armoire (way too fancy a word for the actual structure, but I’m not sure how else to describe the the thing). That “cabinet” takes up a whole wall that will eventually be home to a second couch for maximum family coziness. However, as of yet, I do not possess my own closet upstairs and that armoire is bursting with the cocktail dresses and sky-high heels from my previous life that I am not quite ready to let go of. (Hmmm, did I say I’d left all that behind? You can take the girl out of NYC…) At any rate, although we are using the parlor for the activities it’s meant to contain, it remains cluttered and kitschy—hence, the half a point. Therefore, we have 7.5 rooms that are NOT serving their actual purpose yet. We could quibble on my points system, and I am sure my husband sees it differently, but the point of the points is that we are still existing in a house that is mostly undone.
So, here is the question I ask myself: is that really so bad? There are days when I’d rail against you if you threw that query in my face, incredulous at the very notion of this being an acceptable way to live. But, Lordy, can you say, “High Class Problems?” For goodness sake, we *have* a house. It has heat—and AC! It has water! It has electricity! And no one is dropping bombs on us! Let that one sink in. We. Are. Safe. Really, at this time in the world, is there anything I have to complain about?
On our local FaceBook page, someone recently posted about high gas prices. Talk about stirring the pot. At first, all the comments were to lament the cost, but someone finally pointed out that in the context of the Russian invasion, they were not going to bemoan a few extra bucks to fill their tank. I responded, “Exactly! It’s a small price to pay.” And you know what a woman said to me? “Maybe for you.” Ouch. It was mean and presumptuous and entirely missed my point. Took the Norman Rockwell right outta town. I debated answering her. I wrote both scathing and heartfelt replies in my head. In the end, I decided to let her own comment comment on her. No one with whom I had relationships would misunderstand what I’d meant, and this stranger had very clearly defined her own character without any help from me. I let it lie. And you know what? Another woman did answer, clarifying my point precisely. It wasn’t snarky, just a simple reminder that living in a country where we were paying more at the gas pump was not as difficult as living in one where innocent citizens were paying with their lives. I did reply to her, with a simple, “Thank you.” The whole exchange was a good lesson in perspective and privilege. The thing is, I can afford the gas hike. I mean, I’d rather not put extra dollars there, but if I really need to, I am lucky enough to be able to so. The other thing is, the ‘Maybe For You Lady’ was probably not able to see her own privilege. She might, indeed, be struggling to afford gasoline, but she couldn’t or wouldn’t put herself in the shoes of a woman in Ukraine who was struggling to survive. There are a handful of folks who have legit personality disorders that make them unable to empathize; perhaps she is one of them. My guess is that her lack of empathy is a result her perspective—one shaped by the voices and messages around her. I remember when the news came out that masks served mostly to protect others. That was when people started rejecting masks as taking away their personal freedoms. It was horrifying to realize that if people had continued to believe that masks were keeping themselves safe, they’d have kept them on, no problem. As this debate heightened, I recall hearing it summed up perfectly: “I don’t know how to explain to you that you should care for other people.”
But, but, but, the point is not politics. I am wondering more about the concept of what it takes to feel you are a part of a place, and it is a part of you. The ‘Maybe For You Lady’ made me feel like not only did I not belong, but I would not want to belong to a place where her tone prevailed. However, as with all things social media, the subsequent woman, who politely explained my words, instantly flipped my feelings back to cozy. No matter where you live geographically, there will always be people who differ philosophically. The idea that we live in two countries shaped along diametrically opposed ideological boundaries is real. And, though you can easily generalize that the coasts and cities exist on one side, and that the middle and rural areas exist on the other, I see a shift in our new corner of the world. I see the shift in me, actually. Let me try to explain.
I’m going to be honest and admit that despite being born in Minnesota and consciously choosing to return, it turns out that I was holding onto a vague sense of superiority, having left the midwest for glitzier pastures. I went to NYU and lived in LA and NYC before returning to my roots. I was, quite simply, a bit of a snob. I think that in some ways, that snobbery filter was what was inhibiting me from psychically moving into my new local. You cannot stand fully in a new place if you are also standing in judgement. Now, I was not fully aware that I was doing that, and I am embarrassed to look back and see the darkness of elitism clouding my thoughts. The good news is that this place slowly, but surely, removed my condescending-colored glasses, mostly because of the people on whom I turned my gaze. My hoity-toity, Coastal hubris could not exist in the same space with the fully-engaged individuals I found here. And thank goodness! Just because people don’t choose to live in a big city doesn’t mean they aren’t as smart or as creative or worthy of attention and awe as those who do. The list of individuals who have inspired me in my new community is long. It includes incredibly gifted doctors, designers, painters, sculptors, historians, farmers, makers, environmentalists, healers, therapists, body experts, preservationists, potters, small business owners, homesteaders, renovators, artists, influencers, entrepreneurs, electricians, mechanics, poets, musicians, and some kick-ass parents (who also wear many of the hats above). Seriously, the ‘Maybe For You Lady’ aside, I have been gobsmacked by how much I like these people. A lot of all-around-awesome humans have intentionally chosen to live here for a simpler, cleaner, more sustainable, and less expensive lifestyle. Maybe moving away from the rat race makes you smart as a fox. Maybe the foolish thing can be to stay in a place that is completely unaffordable, and dirty, and might be underwater in our children’s lifetime. Maybe intelligence is figuring out what you want and need without running it by the intellectuals. How great it has been for me to let go of all that, along with the weighty chips on my shoulders. Having lived through the transition from one place to the other, I can understand in a more nuanced way why people in rural areas might look at those in urban areas with distain, and I can see why city dwellers still think people who live in “fly-over states” are the ones who are disconnected (note Facebook gasoline convo). I see you all. Everyone is a bit right and a bit wrong. I sure was. The country and the city each have good and bad aspects. Most of the assumptions made about one place from the other are based on a lack of exposure. As Mark Twain said, “Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness.” I am glad we came here—for all of the lessons it is providing. It is different in mostly wonderful ways. Goodness knows there is no perfect, but I am proud to have taken such a big leap into the unknown. It was a change we made on purpose, unlike so many life throws at you. Since change is the only constant, it is good and right to make some yourself when you feel so moved.
A couple weeks ago, I found myself alone in my house because David was off doing a production of Hamlet, and Finley had school and a short visit to Nana’s. I had never really been home alone on the farm. You know what happened? I started talking to myself. A lot. I realized that I used to do that all the time, but because I was now rarely alone, I had stopped. It was like running into an old friend! I had so much to catch me up on! I prattled on as I rattled around the house, taking the time to do the kind of projects that were too hard when others were around. If anyone could have seen me, they’d have thought I was nuts. But for me it was wonderful. One day, after dropping Finley at school, I started thinking about a song I loved from the musical, “Waitress.” When I got home, I pulled it up on YouTube and watched several versions. Throughout the day, the song stayed in my head, and I began singing snatches of it to myself. For at least a week that melody was the background music of my life. Over and over, the lyrics bubbled up in me, and I sang them quietly, then loudly, to myself, to the trees out the window, to the cat. It seemed I had also forgotten that I liked to sing. In high school I did all the musicals, and in college I studied voice as an aspect of the acting program. Upon graduation, I decided that I would rather focus on straight plays than musicals. It’s difficult and expensive to maintain a respectable level of expertise in all aspects of musical theatre. I was always, ‘the actress who could dance,” or the, “actress who could sing.” In the end, I only really wanted to be “the actress,” full stop. That was my true passion. But singing for the joy of expressing my own self through beautiful turns of phrase and gorgeous, soaring scores had simply slipped my overcrowded mind. Rediscovering both of these ways of communicating—with myself—was really fun. When Finley was around, I didn’t talk to myself, but I did wind up humming or softly singing a few notes of that song. She noticed. “What is that?,” she asked one day as we were driving. I told her it was a song I liked and asked if she wanted me to sing it to her. She said yes, though I’m not sure she was all that interested. The song was called, “She Used to Be Mine,” written by Sara Bareilles. Here are the lyrics:
“It's not simple to say
Most days I don't recognize me
These shoes and this apron
That place and its patrons
Have taken more than I gave 'em
It's not easy to know
I'm not anything like I used to be
Although it's true
I was never attention sweet center
I still remember that girl
She's imperfect but she tries
She is good but she lies
She is hard on herself
She is broken and won't ask for help
She is messy but she's kind
She is lonely most of the time
She is all of this mixed up
And baked in a beautiful pie
She is gone but she used to be mine
It's not what I asked for
Sometimes life just slips in through a back door
And carves out a person
And makes you believe it's all true
And now I've got you
And you're not what I asked for
If I'm honest I know I would give it all back
For a chance to start over
And rewrite an ending or two
For the girl that I knew
Who’ll be reckless just enough
Who’ll get hurt
But who learns how to toughen up when she's bruised
And gets used by a man who can't love
And then she'll get stuck
And be scared of the life that's inside her
Growing stronger each day
'Til it finally reminds her
To fight just a little
To bring back the fire in her eyes
That's been gone
But used to be mine
Used to be mine
She is messy but she's kind
She is lonely most of the time
She is all of this mixed up and baked in a beautiful pie
She is gone but she used to be mine”
Finley listened. When I finished, she asked me, “Who was the girl that was her’s? Was it her friend, or her child?” I told her, all theatre-nerd-delighted that she wanted to understand, “No, it was HERSELF!!!” I explained that the woman in the song used to be all those things, but she has changed. She misses how she was before. Finley thought about this. Then she said, “If it were me, I’d just act like I used to and be that way again.” I thought about that—how nice it would be if it were so simple. I told her that sometimes things happen in life as you grow up that make it hard to go back to the way you used to be. I repeated the phrase, “sometimes life just slips in through a backdoor, and carves out a person, and makes you believe it’s all true…” I told her that you might not even know you are changing and you can’t control what will make you change. She was quiet, considering this. Then I added, “But you know what? You had a really good idea. In the song she is hoping to be more like her old self—to ‘bring back the fire in her eyes’—and your suggestion is one she could use to do that.” Finley smiled at me in the rearview mirror. “Yeah,” she said, and we drove on.
The truth is, life can slip in and alter us, but as my sweet girl perceptively suggested, we can also alter ourselves—by simply deciding to do so. That makes it sound easy, and fast. Usually it isn’t. Some transformations come with a weird sort of limbo in which there has already been an outward shift, but not yet an inward one. Or, a stretch of time where there’s been an internal alteration, but not enough time/resources/courage/opportunity for the outside to yet match the inside. We moved in the fall of 2020, and here I am in the early spring of 2022 feeling as though I am just catching up in so many ways. I guess you can’t really rush an inside job.
I remember years ago, asking my dad about when trees know how to bud. I always thought it was the warmer weather that they took as their cue. But, no. He said it was the change in the light they needed, the lengthening of the days that accompanied spring. The trees bloom because they have more daylight; it wakes them from slumber. As the weather here finally started shifting from deep winter to early spring, I recalled our conversation, and it occurred to me that we are like the trees. We don’t need warmth in order to grow, we need light. We don’t need comfort, we need illumination. We need to be able to see, really see, more than we did before. That is where change starts. The light of knowledge wakes us from our slumber. Like those cheesy 1980’s TV specials emblazoned with, “The More You Know,” over a technicolor rainbow. It’s true. To see a situation or a part of yourself with greater clarity is the first step to transformation. It’s like looking in your life’s rearview mirror at noon with no makeup. No making it up. It is exactly what the woman in the song I kept singing does when she admits with such raw vulnerability all that she’s lost. That clarity is what might actually allow her to “rewrite an ending or two.” You gotta name it to claim it, as they say.
And so, I say: may the faith of spring trees inspire us to shed light upon our own darkness. Though their branches may still shiver with late falling snow, they will not stop budding— because they can see the light. It is good to feel like you belong, to know that kind of safety. Belonging is like the warmth of a good hug, like the easy abundance of summer, not the struggle of spring. It is wonderful, but it is not where the growth happens. Seasons on earth mirror seasons of life. If we can use our spring, that space of limbo, that unsettledness, that discomfort in the in-between who we were and who we want to be…if we let the shift become…a pause…if we take…a breath…inside the journey.…we will be…we will… be…longing. Perhaps it is more important to be longing than to belong.
It is not the destination, but it is the only place to begin.