Roots

He had known life in other forms than those of pastoral simplicity, having mingled in the gay and in the busy scenes of the world; but the flattering portrait of mankind, which his heart had delineated in early youth, his experience had too sorrowfully corrected. Yet, amidst the changing visions of life, his principles remained unshaken, his benevolence unchilled; and he retired from the multitude 'more in pity than in anger,' to scenes of simple nature, to the pure delights of literature, and to the exercise of domestic virtues.

- Ann Radcliffe, The Mysteries of Udolpho

This afternoon in our apartment, I looked out our window and saw a bird. Just a single bird, and it WASN'T a pigeon. It was flying so high...I wondered if it ever traveled into Manhattan, or if it stayed where the buildings are smaller in Brooklyn. I imagine it'd be difficult to fly much in a city crammed with towering buildings.

I could just make out part of its flight before it soared out of view.

Which isn't saying much. Our view of the sky is small. A tiny patch. Because then the building next door to us blocks our view.

Suddenly I was struck with a melancholy that I haven't felt in a while. I missed looking out our old apartment windows and being able to see a bird fly much farther.

In high school, my friends Laura, Meg, and I would get into Laura's 1987 Cutlass Supreme and drive out west. We'd listen to Modest Mouse and drive until there were no more lights. There'd be nothing, just fields as far as the eye can see. And we'd just sit there in silence on the hood until we started imagining we heard rustling in the grass. Or voices. Or worse...a deadly animal ready to ATTACK! We spooked ourselves into screaming and getting back in the car and driving back the way we came. But the point is, there's something calming about being where nobody is. Where you can watch a bird's flight unencumbered until it's nothing but a speck in the distance.

And I realized that one of the things I want to do on my trip home is to drive somewhere where I can do that.


I know I sound not like myself right now. Or do I? I sound crazy, because all my life I've wanted to live in a big city. I wanted to get into publishing, and the only place to do that are the big hubs -- Chicago, New York, San Fran, DC. And like Tyler says, I always wish I lived somewhere other than where I am. A couple weeks ago Tyler and I lay in bed reading, and I said, out of the blue, "If you lived in each state for a year, it would take fifty years."

Acute observation, I know. But I'd never really thought of it before. There are so many places I want to go, but it's practically impossible to see them all in one lifetime. Isn't that sad? The United States has such differing geography, culture, food, people -- and I can never be a part of it all. And that's just in the US! And even if you did live in one state every year for fifty years, what part of the state would you live in? Eastern Nebraska has a different landscape than Western Nebraska. Mountainous, pine forest-filled northern Arizona is vastly different from its southern desert point bordering Mexico. And California? You might need to dedicate two years. Would you live in a small town or a larger city?

I was listening to a favorite podcast of mine, This American Life, and the story was about the Jarvis family who lived off the grid for years on a farm in West Virginia -- a natural gas well fueled their stove -- they didn't have a gas bill, birth certificates, phone, nothing, and they were perfectly happy. (Actually, this story has pretty much taken over my life since I'm using it as a book proposal in my publishing class.) Eileen and her husband, Ron, were hippies who had 'dropped out' in the 60s and never came back. She cooked vegetarian meals with the vegetables and herbs from her garden and homeschooled her six children. They had 140 acres to play in, which is so starkly different from the fenced-in school playground I passed by today on the way to the library. It didn't even have grass, just that rubber stuff that is starting to replace gravel and sand.

I know I couldn't ever live a life like the Jarvises -- I'm not tough enough and I'm actually pretty girly when it comes to bugs and dirt. But I admire it all the same. I remember awhile back Tyler mentioned he wanted to retire on some land somewhere in the Midwest, away from everyone.


"Well, you'll probably be retiring by yourself then," I replied, so confident that I could never, would never, live isolated from society.

But I think being in an environment so opposite of that -- completely urban, surrounded by people all the time, where you're totally anonymous and no one cares what you do -- has made me reconsider. Especially because most of the time I really dislike people and their stupidity.

And on my days off of work, what makes me happiest is to be by myself reading, cleaning, running errands, and letting my inner 70-year-old old lady/nerd roam free.

And right now I really want to live in a little beach town on the east coast. I'd love to spend a weekend with Tyler in a little B&B in Maine in the spring or early summer. Then we'd BUY a B&B and live with our friends and I would bake scones and cookies and we'd have delightful guests and we'd get to know so many interesting people who'd pass through. Then I'd learn how to garden and we'd spend our days filling our library and reading on our porch overlooking the sea, drinking iced tea and lemonade.

Oh my gosh, where do I come up with this stuff?

But you know what? I'd also be satisfied if Tyler and I became really rich somehow and had to stay in New York, but also had a little getaway house in a little beach town for vacations and weekends.

Tyler just needs to put his bioengineering degree to good use.

Until then, I'm counting the days until I can go back home and drive a car (!) on the highway as far as I please and watch birds fly over neverending fields.