sounds familiar

Among the many new threads of thought that I’ve had in the wake of Mom’s recent passing is my realization that the notion of what and where “home” changes over one’s life.

I hadn’t given it much thought, but what I’ve called “home” has changed over the years. As a kid it was easy, but it changes as you grow up, move out, marry, move away, have kids & visit grandparents – wherever they may be. There’s a “home” for my family (spouse and progeny), there’s a “home” where I came of age, and there’s an important “home” that isn’t a place but instead a proximity – wherever your parents are, that’s also a form of “home.”

I thought: Where is “home” now? Where do you go for Thanksgiving and Christmas when that magnetic north is gone? And then I thought: There is a new and different freedom to be explored here. There is also a torch-passing, a conferrence of eldership and family stake. I think also that there is much to learn about living in this new era, and what responsibility is conferred.

Peace & love.

It’s coming together, this new house.

There are things I’d like to do, but they are improvements as opposed to fixes, desired not required. Get the ceiling redone as smooth vs. this post-popcorn texture; redo the floors; replace some fans and lights. But all of this is indulgence, and not necessary.

It’s good, too, that we got the place in working order. Money is not what it was in California. I guess I haven’t talked about it much, but the move to Florida meant a deep, but voluntary, pay cut. Ah but “pay cut” sounds so violent and helpless, and this is something we did willingly in surrender, so let’s instead maybe call it a “transaction of time and money.”

I feel a pride, and with it the guilt I almost always feel alongside any pride, for making that transaction. Or, I want to feel a pride. I want to be proud that, in opting to leave money and status for time with family I did a noble thing. Yet here I am, making less money and having less status, spinning wheels trying to measure the resultant increase in “family time.”

You know how you know things are a certain way, that they are true and that a situation is as you know it to be, yet you still act as if you don’t know it? It’s not about acknowledging that reality, it’s about permitting yourself to be satisfied. That’s where I struggle. Not in happiness, which I have in spades, but in doneness – the satisfaction of completion. Always bothered by having not yet arrived at some contented state of finished, when once can finally relax and be mindful of the present.

It’s just another part of what I wrote yesterday about learning to live in a state of transition – just phrased another way. To not be seeking some future “job well done” place, to instead be happy with the last breath, most recent beat of the heart, or the comfortable temperature in the room.

“What greater wealth is there than to own your life and to spend it on growing?”

If you can name it, you can work on it, right? I’m working on it.

Mom joined Dad on Friday, around noon California time.

John and I imagined him waiting for her, asking her sarcastically, “What took you so long?,” with a cold Heineken in-hand for her, to match his own.

Near the end she talked about how badly she wanted to see him again. How it was what she wanted most, how she wasn’t afraid. At one point she remembered Dad’s concern with all things God near the end of his life, saying that she had prayed to God that he let her join him, that he let her go.

Pat welcomed me to the “orphan club,” noting that the initiation sucks. It does. Like I started writing about the day before Mom passed, it feels like a new era. As if to echo my own sentiment, my long-time mentor’s response when I informed her was, “There is a maturity that comes with this phase of life that I think you will enjoy a lot.” I liked those words a lot, read and re-read them, and I think they may have helped me realize something…

For me, this whole thing, this five year happening bookended by the losses of Dad and Mom, is about learning to tolerate uncertainty. No I I don’t mean to say it was engineered to teach me a lesson; I mean that’s what I’m supposed to be learning from it. To be able to weather ambiguity, to be OK with not-knowing, to drift directionless with confidence, not flailing at flotsam.

I don’t know how much I’ve improved. Dad, the RV trip, the big change, Mom… it seemed foregone… I mean we lived for a year with no agenda and no direction. It was bliss. We made a conscious decision to chase family and togetherness instead of promotions and salary. It was wise. But did I get better at living in the the between space? Jury is still out.

Maybe I’m being naive, after all I just got out of my first five-year class on the subject. Maybe the real learning comes after the object lesson, after being pushed from the nest? They may be gone, but I’m happy to let them continue to sharpen me.

Miss you Mom and Dad, love you.

The point in life where you’ve lost both of your parents is an important one.

This cord which has biologically tied me to my past; the physical forms – gone. Wheeled out and whisked away and never more tangible.

It seems a true end to a phase I wasn’t even aware I was in; a clear division in time; bookends to an epoch. A point where you are now truly on your own.

I’m realizing that the death of my parents, though two separate things in chronology, is really a single period of time in my life. A five-year happening. The death of my dad, our year-long sabbatical & subsequent life change, and the death of my mom. I can see it now for a single event; a complete evolution with a start and a middle and an end.

It stared with my realization that losing my dad, though I was prepared for it, impacted my life in ways I hadn’t been cognizant of. I’m convinced this event had bearing on changes to my attitude towards my career and my family. Under cover, not in the conscious open, my dad’s death worked in my mind. Losing dad changed everything, but it took me this long to recognize it.

Mom’s imminent passing will no doubt also drive change.

“Everything looks junky.”

That’s what Keaton says about Florida.

“It’s all dirty and broken-down. It’s not like California.”

No, it’s not like California.

At least, not like the thirty square miles of California that our kids, in their limited exposure, assume is wholly representative of California. The manicured, whitebread suburbs and master-planned communities with convenient parks and shopping and schools, where all the stucco and paint are new and clean and the grass and ornamental plants are trimmed. The HOAs that keep the streets free of cars and houses free of well-water streaking. The stay-at-home moms with thousand dollar purses and fresh tans and nails.

Nope, it’s not like that where we are now.

In contrast, Florida seems alive – always straining against being tamed, steadily working to reclaim all human undertaking as jungle-swamp. You can fight it, but it’s a continuous fight. It rains a lot, and everything stays wet even when it hasn’t rained.  It’s hot, the sun bakes the land.  Plants grow while you watch.  Hurricanes come every now and then to wipe away things men arrogantly continue to build, giving the swamp and jungle a fresh canvas to overtake. There are several creatures which feel directly descendant from dinosaurs that are just… walking around everywhere.

It’s OK though.  Not just for me, it’s OK for us all.  Part of me thinks maybe it’s even healthy… to get out of the bubble, to see that it’s not all pristine upper class new car disposable income.  

Could do without the Trump flags, though.

Moving is challenging.

I did not anticipate the red tape and chicken/egg situations we encountered trying to do things.  Things like establishing new bank accounts and moving money, buying a used car & getting new driver’s licenses, buying a house, getting library cards, putting the kids in school.  

Our situation for the past year exacerbated this unanticipated complexity.  The Man has a tough time taking you on your word when you don’t fit the norm.  Having no physical address and no history of income for a year really complicates things.  How can such a person be weighed and measured and deemed “real” enough to re-join the system?  It’s all nested, too: You need an address to get a driver’s license, a license and address to get the kids in school; local insurance to by a car, an address to get insurance, etc.  

These processes are challenging when you can’t show that you’re “stable” from a financial perspective – when you don’t fit the model.  Surely a person who has no paychecks in the last year, isn’t paying rent, and has no current home address requires extra vetting before being allowed to open a bank account.  I imagine the AI that analyzes our profile and ranks and rates such things must stamp INDIGENT in red across the top of the file, a warning to every account officer and underwriter.

Thing is, the data that represents us appears this way because we, using the very means the algorithms assume we must not posses, chose to live outside the norm for a year.   It was our decision to live jobless and travel.  How much harder must all these processes be for those who have truly been out of work for a time, who’ve not had a home address because they literally have no stable place to live?   

Thinking about it this way made me consider just how biased systems are towards what we consider financial stability: A regular job, a consistent address, established credit.  Our frustration came only from having to demonstrate that we were not, despite what data analysis may indicate, poor.  Ours was simply an issue of proving stability, and we were aided greatly by the fact that we are, indeed, stable. 

Yet there are those who must navigate these waters because they are working their way up.  They are not stable.  It is not simply a matter of jumping through a few extra hoops to prove stability so they can get a new bank account or used car.  No, the bank account and used car are actually things needed to begin demonstrating stability, to make forward progress towards it.

Harder, though, than experiencing a taste of the biased system, was the realization that I’m a part of the bias.  It happened while we were working to get the kids enrolled and started in school.  The district will not allow you do this without a driver’s license and address and paper utility bill in your name that proves you reside at said address.  Because we’d only just moved here, we had none of these things – yet we wanted to get the kids started.

One very kind and helpful woman at the district office recommended we register the kids as “homeless.”  This way they need nothing, no documentation whatsoever.  Better still, they can start the very day they are registered, absolutely no questions asked.  We took advantage of this, using what felt almost like loophole to skirt the requirements that we’ll meet as soon as we close on our house and register our cars and, and, and…

And, although we did this, registered the kids as homeless, we felt the need to let the schools and teachers know that they are not, in fact, homeless.  That they are simply in between homes after a cross-country move.  Being tagged with the “homeless” status came with free lunch and outreach calls from social workers… so we felt the need to clarify.

But why?  We did we feel the need to “clarify?”

I wondered this to a friend and her answer still shames me: “Because we are conditioned to equate poverty with character.  You were embarrassed.”  

Oh, God forgive us, she is right. 

“Hey teachers, I know how this must look, but, trust us, we have means.  See, there are special circumstances… we’re a loving family unit, we took a year off and traveled.  We’re not really poor we’re just adventurous.”  

It’s not what we said, but it’s what was underneath.  

We moved from California to Florida just before I started the 6th grade.

That summer before school started was great. I spent every day playing with my brother. We spent most waking moments either in the pool or in the waves, as the condo Dad’s work set us up in while we looked for houses was beachfront. We met girls who spoke French.

Starting school in a new place was more challenging. I can vividly, like, almost even to the taste of dust in my mouth, remember feeling alone and confused. Questioning how I was going to fit in and who I even was. I was brand new, no one knew me, how was I going to act, who was I going to be?

We moved from California to Florida just before our 20th wedding anniversary.

The year before was great. I spent every day in an RV my family. We traveled around the US and Canada, exploring creation and history and learning about each other. We made new inside jokes, Cohen developed a love for Pokemon, Keaton for writing. Sharaun constantly reminded me why I love and need her more than anything.

Establishing our family a starting work in a new place has been exciting and scary. This morning, I had a feeling so close to that feeling 6th grade me felt that I was inspired to write this in response.

I am brand new.