Friday, July 11, 2008
SHATTERED
We've done it. We've schlepped ourselves and our kids (no sign yet of the 51 boxes) back across the world to where we started - San Francisco - our beloved City by the Bay. We've been here 10 days already, and have experienced very little jet-lag and no culture shock at all. As I suspected, it feels almost as though we never left. The shops and house colors in our neighborhood are the same. Our friends seem unchanged (except for the addition of several small humans to the tribe.) The discourse in our news rags and between people on the street seems eerily familiar. The only big difference is that our flat was pretty crapped up by the tenants - picture us from now through at least next spring hunkered over buckets of solvent while we attempt to remove paint from every light fixture, doorhinge, doorknob, and nail in the joint. Nonetheless, our belongings (which were stored off-site) are pretty much intact, and Lord Limescale (still looking for the right West Coast handle) is an extraordinarily handy fellow, so he has the know-how and chutzpah to repair, replace and repaint our flat to its former glory.
And yet, to borrow a florid phrase from the English, I feel a bit shattered. There is the obvious fact that both our space and our daily routine are fairly chaotic at the moment. But on a deeper level, I feel like I have literally left behind a piece of myself, a shed skin. Like a cartoon shadow, there is something two-dimension and unstable about this new life. For now, it lacks the will or infastructure to stand up on its own.
As we were leaving England, many people wished us "safe travels." This is a common courtesy in America too, but something about the phrasing and consistency of the British wish stuck with me. Traveling is dangerous. When you are out of your home space, the odds are much higher that you will encounter something unexpected, something you aren't prepared to deal with. Every new city, every new form of transportation poses hidden obstacles and threats which must be learned and overcome. Maybe that's why the Odyssey remains Western culture's favorite narrative. Lately, my son has demanded daily that we serve up different versions of this quintessential travel story (mostly with a Giraffe or a Zebra in the lead role). Perhaps his hunger for epic tales reflects his own sense of dislocation, and a need to glorify our travels before he can put them to rest.
More soon. Be well.
And yet, to borrow a florid phrase from the English, I feel a bit shattered. There is the obvious fact that both our space and our daily routine are fairly chaotic at the moment. But on a deeper level, I feel like I have literally left behind a piece of myself, a shed skin. Like a cartoon shadow, there is something two-dimension and unstable about this new life. For now, it lacks the will or infastructure to stand up on its own.
As we were leaving England, many people wished us "safe travels." This is a common courtesy in America too, but something about the phrasing and consistency of the British wish stuck with me. Traveling is dangerous. When you are out of your home space, the odds are much higher that you will encounter something unexpected, something you aren't prepared to deal with. Every new city, every new form of transportation poses hidden obstacles and threats which must be learned and overcome. Maybe that's why the Odyssey remains Western culture's favorite narrative. Lately, my son has demanded daily that we serve up different versions of this quintessential travel story (mostly with a Giraffe or a Zebra in the lead role). Perhaps his hunger for epic tales reflects his own sense of dislocation, and a need to glorify our travels before he can put them to rest.
More soon. Be well.
Labels: Family Life, time
