Staying Home, with New Eyes

--Stay Home--

I will wait here in the fields
to see how well the rain
brings on the grass.
In the labor of the fields
longer than a man’s life
I am at home.  Don’t come with me.
You stay home too.

I will be standing in the woods
where the old trees
move only with the wind
and then with gravity.
In the stillness of the trees
I am at home.  Don’t come with me.
You stay home too.
(Wendell Berry, Collected Poems 1957-1982, p. 199)

I suppose one could hear him to be anti-social.  "Stay home" isn't, on the surface, an invitational sounding enjoinder.   It rather has the hospitable ring of "keep away from me."  A slower reading, however, allows a richer, more respectful intent to rise from the poem.  


We are surrounded by envy; animated by an appetite for what someone else already has.  Perhaps it is a possession; perhaps a position; perhaps a point in life -- a stage; an age perhaps older or younger.  
"If I had his connections..."  
"If I only had her looks..."
"If I were ten years younger I would..."
"If I could retire now I would..."
"If only our church were located in the suburbs..."
"If only I lived in the country..."


The French have this word -- this concept -- that has captivated me of late.  Terroir speaks of the taste imparted by the specificity of place.  It argues on behalf of the uniqueness of each locale.  A certain hillside may be better suited than another to grow grapes -- indeed, one particular variety of grapes -- but that only makes it better than that other hillside or valley  or plain if one's only desire is to grow that particular variety of grape.  A true "terroirist" doesn't concern himself with what can be grown "over there," but rather with what can be grown right here.  Where he is.  


The Benedictines have elevated the concept to the sacred.  In taking a vow of "Stability," they call attention to the conviction that "God is not elsewhere." 


That, I think, is the wisdom given voice in Berry's poem.  You don't need to come wherever I am -- nor do I need to follow you -- in order to experience wonder and beauty and delight. Invest the patient attentiveness necessary to discover such graces in the place you already are.


Years ago singer Don Henley of The Eagles recorded a song whose chorus was a kind of prayer:
"To want what I have
To take what I'm given with grace
These things I pray..."


To want what I have.  And where I am.  And the taste unique to it.  And to stay home and appreciate the fertility of it.

These things I pray.

Living in Me, Even if I no Longer Live in It...

It is the places that come most sentimentally to mind. Even though it was my third return address, it has nonetheless been "where I'm from." And the landmarks through the years are what surface in my memory. There is the corner display window at the old Thornton's Department Store at 4th and Oak that was a mandatory field trip every Christmas season to see the fabulous holiday display. There is likewise Minter's Department Store downtown with its pneumatic tubes whooshing cash from sales far away somewhere into the recesses of the building and whooshing receipts back to the clerk and the customer. There is "Hombre", the first hair salon I frequented after "graduating" from the common barber shops. There is "Bud's Duds"that carried the cool clothes when I was a young teen, and later "Jeffrey's Village Peddler" that specialized in more sophisticated, gentleman's clothes I loved when I and my tastes matured. It always impressed me that the sales staff remembered my named and my size whenever I returned home throughout college -- until my size kept changing.

I picture the streets and neighborhoods through which I drove the ice cream cart, bell clanging and kids chasing and me grinning with the sales. I think of Old Abilene Town, the recreated historical village on the outskirts of town, and the artificial beach and "ocean" someone created out by the zoo.

I can still feel the rush of jumping off the high diving board at the Abilene Swim Club, and if I listen carefully I can hear the sounds of David and me singing and playing guitars at La Hacienda, the Mexican restaurant owned by the father of a friend where we worked on Friday and Saturday nights for $10 apiece, dinner, and tips (of which there were rarely any).

I remember the drive-in movie theatre on the north side of town where the bell choir friends would go for entertainment in the summer, and Rose Park Tennis Center where I lived most summer afternoons. "Saddle and Sirloin" was the place for a late night burger, and the thought of "Tony's Pizza Cave" still makes me smile.

I picture the walk to Austin Elementary School, and the halls of Madison Junior High, and the choir and drama and speech rooms at Cooper High School, and the auditorium there where the plays were performed and the talent shows were held, and where, in the lobby, my picture now hangs in the "Hall of Fame" for reasons I still don't understand.

There aren't enough words to capture the memories of the church -- the classrooms, the fellowship hall, the choir room, and the silencing, grounding awe I felt slipping into the back row of the empty sanctuary at night with the communion table glowing the only light.

And the house. Of course the house -- the garage where countless pool and ping pong games were played; the big back yard where football games competed with fruit trees; the living room anchored by the piano, and the den that was the intersection of life; my room that always felt like sanctuary, and Craig's room where the various teenaged rock bands always rehearsed.

There are people, of course -- directories full of them; teachers, mentors, neighbors, friends -- but now that my parents are moving from the house and the city that for better than 40 years has been home, it is the places that come to mind. The people, themselves, like me have changed and even moved, and there is a fluidity to relationships I take in stride. But this is the phone number, the address and zip code that for the better part of my life has been "home." These are the fence posts to which my kite string has been tied.

I am happy that my parents are moving -- it is simpler, wiser, more practically sound. I support it -- indeed encouraged it -- and I am proud of them for making the move. It isn't easy to uproot after so many years in the same ground, but they are doing it; and with a lot of hard physical and emotional work, the day is almost at hand. I'm happy for them, and proud of them.

But it's hard to cut the string that connects all of us to home. Not sad so much as sentimental. The city limits of Abilene, Texas have been the crucible of our lives, our memories. How many meals have we eaten there? How many nights' sleep? How many tears have been shed there, and how many lessons learned? How many stories have been lived there -- how many chapters written?

Countless. It has been a good place to call home, and though our visits there will be far more unpredictable now, "home" I'm guessing it will continue to be.

Thank you, Abilene, for grounding me, raising me, sheltering us all, and embracing us; thank you for encouraging us, shaping us, forgiving us, and befriending us. And thank you for coming with me...

...in my soul.