Holding ourselves is important. But isn't part of the allure of escape the freedom from *being held*? By a person. By a place. I find that my own restlessness has often been driven by that desire to keep my vulnerability hidden. It's like Greg Brown says: "If I open the door, you will know that I'm poor, and my secrets are all that I own."
It's such a universal trope. Tobias Wolff begins This Boy's Life with he and his mother poised for flight. The shift from flight to mindful inhabitation is also at the heart of my book. But I'm finding that it's never simple. Sometimes we stay put in places or situations that we'd rather flee, but we're there for others -- holding them, giving them an anchor that we might not feel we have ourselves. This is partly how I feel about my life in Pennsylvania. It's a fine place on its own terms, and I'll do what I can to embrace it as home while I must. But mostly I'm doing that for my kids. My real home is in Montana, the place that I felt was telling me to leave back in 1993. Now I know that there are people who would hold me there. Places that could hold me. Maybe someday I'll close that gap.
People always say that to love well you have to basically be fine on your own. Capable of holding yourself, as you say. Do you think that's true? Or do you find that your history of leaving makes it harder to let someone else in?
Thanks so much Josh. I really appreciate your thoughtful reading and comments.
One ex of mine calls me "Earth Anchor," for how I felt to her, holding her down to earth, keeping her from flying away.
We have a lot of parallels—and it sure ain't simple... My leaving had a lot to do with a bunch of things, certainly included keeping my vulnerability hidden, as you put it, and also resisting being held by anyone, or any one place. I do agree that "to love well you have to basically be fine on your own"—yes, capable of holding yourself. My history of leaving used to make it hard to let someone in. I think I've mostly gotten past that as now my life in San Francisco (and elsewhere) is full of friends, family, and even some of the kids that I didn't have myself. I do remain, however, not a wanderer or a vagabond but a voyager, explorer and a wayfinder at heart, and so while I have finally found how to do more of that at home, I will always love being on the move. I think that's a bit of a personality trait, an archetype that I embody.
I like the the questions Bowen since I haven't taken to writing passionately. Even this feels a little forced. It's incredible what is normal when you know nothing else. I grew up in a working class poor neighbourhood. Our house was 600 sq ft and inhabited by six of us. My mother, father, two brothers and my uncle. My eldest brother was the first to leave when he had a psychotic episode when I was six and ended up institutionalized for most of his life. Next, my uncle died in our house fire when I was ten. My mother died of cancer when I was twelve. My other brother left home after completing a degree in education when I was fifteen. My father was for the most part absent-he was fifty when I was born-worked an afternoon shift and drank on the weekends. I left home at nineteen-bounced around a few rentals until I bought my first house at twenty-one. My father died three years later. I went on to own over twenty properties-mostly rentals and flips until settling into my current home thirty years ago this September. That coupled with having a full time job with limited vacation time and raising our two daughters didn't afford much time for travel. Also, having a tumultuous childhood made me a real homebody I believe. I did staycation before it was a thing. My home is a 3,400 sq ft bi-level-on seven wooded acres-backing on to a couple hundred acres with a man made lake-ten minutes from a Provincial park-one hour from the worlds 11th largest freshwater lake where we have had a cottage for several years. Am I crazy for feeling trapped? I think most of us 'men' are explorers by nature. Being tied down with work and family has been both a great source of joy and a great source of anxiety. I do believe it is possible to have it all, but extremely extraordinary.
My next chapter, hopefully this winter, is to explore options in central and South America. I have taken vacations to other places though I wouldn't call that travelling. But I can see the value.
Aside from family and friends, I still seek the short term comfort of alcohol in the form of craft beers (vanilla bourbon porter) I am making progress in reducing and maybe eventually total abstinence. I do believe in "get high on your own supply" and "straight street that great street".
Cheers for beers-or sparkling water!
Just noticed this share on notes feature so I'll give it a whirl.
"having a tumultuous childhood made me a real homebody" lands powerfully John, although for me it was "having a tumultuous childhood made me an escape artist." I didn't have enough of the warmth at home that I seek—and create—now, both at home and when I'm on the road.
1) When I was younger I felt everyone was leaving me, but now I tend to be the one to leave first. I don't think I have it as bad as you, but I'm quite tired of leaving. Ready to make a home again.
2) Travel seems essential to the human experience. We don't like to be cooped up in one place for too long. I think we've carried this over from our nomadic origins. However, home is just as necessary to cultivate. I think what early humans had that we don't is that everyone used to move together, so home was quite literally a people and not a place. Nowadays not so much.
3) My friends. I mean the core ones, those who've been with you through life and death. Wouldn't be here today without them.
I hear that you're tired of leaving. I was too. I used to get terribly anxious and often have a cry when it was time to pack up for yet another business trip. Now I hit the road when I want to, but this year that's only been just now, for any extended trip at least. Good point you make about how early humans moved together—that makes a lot of sense. I often find home on the road, running into people that I know, or with whom I share some closely-held passion like paragliding or kitesurfing—or writing—and, yeah, traveling together is a powerful thing. Even as I've gotten more comfortable alone in recent years, I've also had the opportunity to travel together with certain friends more and more, and that has brought us _much_ closer together.
Holding ourselves is important. But isn't part of the allure of escape the freedom from *being held*? By a person. By a place. I find that my own restlessness has often been driven by that desire to keep my vulnerability hidden. It's like Greg Brown says: "If I open the door, you will know that I'm poor, and my secrets are all that I own."
It's such a universal trope. Tobias Wolff begins This Boy's Life with he and his mother poised for flight. The shift from flight to mindful inhabitation is also at the heart of my book. But I'm finding that it's never simple. Sometimes we stay put in places or situations that we'd rather flee, but we're there for others -- holding them, giving them an anchor that we might not feel we have ourselves. This is partly how I feel about my life in Pennsylvania. It's a fine place on its own terms, and I'll do what I can to embrace it as home while I must. But mostly I'm doing that for my kids. My real home is in Montana, the place that I felt was telling me to leave back in 1993. Now I know that there are people who would hold me there. Places that could hold me. Maybe someday I'll close that gap.
People always say that to love well you have to basically be fine on your own. Capable of holding yourself, as you say. Do you think that's true? Or do you find that your history of leaving makes it harder to let someone else in?
Thanks so much Josh. I really appreciate your thoughtful reading and comments.
One ex of mine calls me "Earth Anchor," for how I felt to her, holding her down to earth, keeping her from flying away.
We have a lot of parallels—and it sure ain't simple... My leaving had a lot to do with a bunch of things, certainly included keeping my vulnerability hidden, as you put it, and also resisting being held by anyone, or any one place. I do agree that "to love well you have to basically be fine on your own"—yes, capable of holding yourself. My history of leaving used to make it hard to let someone in. I think I've mostly gotten past that as now my life in San Francisco (and elsewhere) is full of friends, family, and even some of the kids that I didn't have myself. I do remain, however, not a wanderer or a vagabond but a voyager, explorer and a wayfinder at heart, and so while I have finally found how to do more of that at home, I will always love being on the move. I think that's a bit of a personality trait, an archetype that I embody.
I like the the questions Bowen since I haven't taken to writing passionately. Even this feels a little forced. It's incredible what is normal when you know nothing else. I grew up in a working class poor neighbourhood. Our house was 600 sq ft and inhabited by six of us. My mother, father, two brothers and my uncle. My eldest brother was the first to leave when he had a psychotic episode when I was six and ended up institutionalized for most of his life. Next, my uncle died in our house fire when I was ten. My mother died of cancer when I was twelve. My other brother left home after completing a degree in education when I was fifteen. My father was for the most part absent-he was fifty when I was born-worked an afternoon shift and drank on the weekends. I left home at nineteen-bounced around a few rentals until I bought my first house at twenty-one. My father died three years later. I went on to own over twenty properties-mostly rentals and flips until settling into my current home thirty years ago this September. That coupled with having a full time job with limited vacation time and raising our two daughters didn't afford much time for travel. Also, having a tumultuous childhood made me a real homebody I believe. I did staycation before it was a thing. My home is a 3,400 sq ft bi-level-on seven wooded acres-backing on to a couple hundred acres with a man made lake-ten minutes from a Provincial park-one hour from the worlds 11th largest freshwater lake where we have had a cottage for several years. Am I crazy for feeling trapped? I think most of us 'men' are explorers by nature. Being tied down with work and family has been both a great source of joy and a great source of anxiety. I do believe it is possible to have it all, but extremely extraordinary.
My next chapter, hopefully this winter, is to explore options in central and South America. I have taken vacations to other places though I wouldn't call that travelling. But I can see the value.
Aside from family and friends, I still seek the short term comfort of alcohol in the form of craft beers (vanilla bourbon porter) I am making progress in reducing and maybe eventually total abstinence. I do believe in "get high on your own supply" and "straight street that great street".
Cheers for beers-or sparkling water!
Just noticed this share on notes feature so I'll give it a whirl.
"having a tumultuous childhood made me a real homebody" lands powerfully John, although for me it was "having a tumultuous childhood made me an escape artist." I didn't have enough of the warmth at home that I seek—and create—now, both at home and when I'm on the road.
1) When I was younger I felt everyone was leaving me, but now I tend to be the one to leave first. I don't think I have it as bad as you, but I'm quite tired of leaving. Ready to make a home again.
2) Travel seems essential to the human experience. We don't like to be cooped up in one place for too long. I think we've carried this over from our nomadic origins. However, home is just as necessary to cultivate. I think what early humans had that we don't is that everyone used to move together, so home was quite literally a people and not a place. Nowadays not so much.
3) My friends. I mean the core ones, those who've been with you through life and death. Wouldn't be here today without them.
I hear that you're tired of leaving. I was too. I used to get terribly anxious and often have a cry when it was time to pack up for yet another business trip. Now I hit the road when I want to, but this year that's only been just now, for any extended trip at least. Good point you make about how early humans moved together—that makes a lot of sense. I often find home on the road, running into people that I know, or with whom I share some closely-held passion like paragliding or kitesurfing—or writing—and, yeah, traveling together is a powerful thing. Even as I've gotten more comfortable alone in recent years, I've also had the opportunity to travel together with certain friends more and more, and that has brought us _much_ closer together.