The Heart of Home

Kit and cop

The other morning, I awoke to the hissing sound of compression brakes. I thought, What's a semi doing on this tiny street? The private street, which provides access to five small houses, is a tight squeeze. I imagined a stuck semi, unable to back out.

Peeking out the window my stomach jumped: A fire engine and a cop car. Paramedics were headed to Kit and Mark's house.

Dave and I threw on our clothes, anxiously imagining all kinds of possible scenarios. Immediately we saw Kit, who filled us in.

Kit had discovered a disheveled woman in her guest house. The woman had matted hair and dirty clothes. The room reeked of alcohol and urine. Most alarmingly, her face looked like it had been beaten.

Kit asked the woman her name. Irene. Then she asked what had happened to her. Irene wasn't very coherent but Kit discerned that she lives in her car. Kit knew that Irene wasn't in any shape to continue on this way. So she called the paramedics.

What's most fascinating to me about this story is this: Irene must have known, at some level, that it was time for her to get help. She couldn't take her car anymore and sought out a bed. And the bed was in the home of Kit, a psychiatric nurse. Who better to know the best next step?

Before the paramedics wheeled her away, Irene bemoaned the fact that she had to leave the guest house. "What's a house," she said, "if not to live in?"

community

That struck a chord with me. We gave up our house in Santa Cruz more than four months ago to travel. Then came the left-turn we hadn't expected, my seizure and brain surgery. Percolating in my mind and heart is this very question: What is home?

I've come more deeply to understand how home is oneself. It's one's body--this amazing spacesuit--in which our essence dwells.

Yet I've also come to see how home is a soulful creation of people and experience. Home is where, in coming together, we love and feel loved.

So, paradoxically, home is both an intensely private place and a communal one.

In the past few weeks, we've experienced so much community: from spontaneous and planned parties, to neighborly chats on the beach and in each other's yards.

When we were in front of the house the morning the paramedics came, several other neighbors appeared to make sure everything was okay. Just their presence said a lot. Perhaps that's what home is: presence. Being present for each other. Being present for the self.

That night, Kit, Doreen, Dave and I shared a meal. Kit held up her glass: "To Irene."

We all pictured Irene healthy. Healed. Home.

Home is the heart.

Embrace Your Space

Our 'hood for a month.

It's the life of a traveling duo. Yesterday we packed up again. But this move didn't involve a plane, a boat, or even a car. We just schlepped our suitcases next door.

For two weeks we stayed in Doreen's adorable house. My sister's next-door-neighbor, Doreen, graciously allowed us to hang out in her pad while she traveled to Australia. She returns today and we hope we did her house justice: filling it with fun energy, cleaning every corner, and leaving her a couple of household gifts.

Thank you, Doreen.

And now the tables have turned. We are living in my sister's house and will be Doreen's neighbors for two weeks. My sister and her husband took off early yesterday morning to the tip of Baja. Their truck was packed to the brim with an ATV, surfboards, their dog, supplies for several weeks, and gifts for amigos (clothes and candy and Coors).

We don't stay with my sister when we visit because their house is small. It sits in what is fondly known as the "surf slum" of Leucadia. It's just a couple of blocks from the beach amidst other small houses.

There are no towering apartment buildings shadowing the sunny yards. You can regularly hear inklings of neighbors' conversations and music.

Fortunately, I like their musical choices. We were serenaded by the Grateful Dead yesterday at dusk! And I find the distant chatting comforting. Everyone here knows each other. It's like, as a kid, hearing your parents talking downstairs when you're snuggled in bed.

Last night as I sat in my sister's living room listening to "Sugaree" drift in through the window, I thought about how by most American standards, this house is tiny. But it has everything you need: furniture to relax and read on, a kitchen table to eat and play Rummikube on, a bed to rejuvenate in, a stove and fridge to feed everyone, a computer desk to email on, a backyard to BBQ with neighbors, and a vegetable garden to nourish family and friends.

For eating and game-playing.

The more I focused on the bounty of this house, the bigger it appeared. It literally seemed to grow before my eyes. I felt like Alice or Gulliver. The rich patterns in the rug emerged. The little statues and masks on the wall became animated. The painting of an American Indian in a canoe at sunset vibrated. Thick with impasto, this painting used to hang on the wall of the house where my sister and I grew up. As I stared, it vibrated with history.

Who needs drugs to see a new reality? Reality is, as they say, what we make it.

There's one "reality" that claims success = big. Big house. Lots of stuff. Multiple cars. It claims that progress is moving into an even bigger house, perhaps with more property around you. Or having multiple houses filled with even more things. It claims that we all should strive for such progress.

While that may bring joy to some people, many unthinkingly buy into this "reality." And the next thing they know, they feel buried.

I once heard this: We shouldn't have more stuff than we can comfortably manage.

Of course, how much we can manage widely varies from person to person. Some people like to live out of a backpack, while others can comfortably manage a whole staff who manages all their stuff.

(Sometimes I find it a challenge to manage the stuff in the one suitcase I'm living out of! But that's usually during a resistant moment, when I can't easily find something. When I take a breath, that item magically appears at my fingertips.)

At age 19, I lived in one of my favorite spaces ever. It was a basic bedroom in a tract house shared with other college students. I loved being in that room, its white walls adorned with posters of my favorite bands, its bookshelves filled with stories of lives I intimately experienced. In that space, I felt a rich sense of being on my own, of inhabiting a private, un-interruptable world.

Another favorite was my apartment in Yokohama, Japan. A studio with a futon mattress on the floor. I loved it even though my knees hit the wall when I sat on the toilet.

I grew up in a big house. Split level, five bedrooms, redwood decks, swimming pool and jacuzzi. Mostly, I loved that too.

Dave and I may decide at some point we'd like a large house to be our reality. Or maybe we'll want something small like this, near friendly neighbors. Or medium-sized, on a remote piece of land away from civilization.

Whatever we decide upon, it won't be a choice on auto-pilot, unthinkingly buying into whatever reality is out there. We will consciously make our own reality. Small-scale is a perspective. As is vastness.

For now we get the privilege of trying on different lives as we inhabit various worlds. And now I know this: I can truly experience the uniqueness of wherever we are--the bounty of it--if I open my eyes and embrace the space.

Written in this tiny, vast living room.

"Time is an Illusion." - Einstein

My sister Ann, with Sigmund and Scarlet.

It’s fun living next door to my sister, reminiscent of when we shared a bedroom as kids.

Back then ours was a kingdom of stuffed animals and Barbies. We read Nancy Drew and the Happy Hollisters into the night, cool summer air drifting in through the screens. We listened to Dr. Demento on flat speakers placed under our pillows. We wrote stories about girls solving mysteries and traveling the world. We captured polliwogs and watched them sprout legs in jars on our windowsill.

Now we are sharing her neighborhood of friends, dogs, and beaches. Being in Leucadia means living an indoor/outdoor life. People leave their doors and windows open. They gather at dusk for wine in each other's backyards. Last night, Dave made chicken and ribs. Kit and Mark walked over bearing salad. Ann and Bruce came over with pie and wine. 

Such gatherings are an integral part of life here. Almost thirty years ago, Ann moved to Southern California. The rest of our family stayed in Nor Cal. I'm realizing that her daily life has been richly filled with a family of her own making, these wonderful neighbors.

When Dave and I are in the house, I like hearing my sister's laugh through the window, or my brother-in-law calling the dog. Sometimes I see my nephew walking up the hill, surfboard under his arm.

With Tony and Shannon, on our way to 1968.

It just so happens Dave's longtime friends--Tony and Shannon--live just a few miles away. I think about myself, say, seven years ago, visiting my sister. It's likely the Dave I'd yet to meet was hanging out just down the road. 

I like thinking about that: Dave and me in the past, living our separate lives, destined to meet. It makes time feel parallel or overlapping, rather than linear. (I once wrote a poem about this notion.)

As Einstein famously said, "The only reason for time is so that everything doesn't happen at once."

Sometimes the fabric of time seems to wrinkle, past and future overlapping like a bunched-up sheet. Being with family can intensify that. In my 53-year-old sister, sometimes I simultaneously see her at age 12 or 32.

I also felt like a time traveler when we went with Tony and Shannon to see Wild Child. This Doors tribute group is so spot-on, you feel like you're in 1968 but for the iPhones lighting up the dance floor.

That was my first live music event since my surgery. It felt amazing to dance! I've also been enjoying drinking (a little) wine, taking long beach walks, and socializing a lot.

After all this activity, why am I surprised when suddenly I'm tired and have to nap? Or when I need a down day. I can hear part of me saying, "What's wrong with me?" And another part saying, "Give yourself a break! You had brain surgery not even two months ago."

I felt bad yesterday when I pooped out, leaving Dave to do all the preparing for our dinner with friends. But he didn't complain, just dove right in and did a beautiful job. Dinner was great. Hours of conversation over wine, the windows and doors open to the cool sea night.

Then this morning my body said, "You need a whole day off today. No wine, no chatting, not too much movement. Just nestle in, lovingly." I remind myself that listening to my body is a good thing.

elixir

And here's where I once again count my blessings. I have the freedom to do just that, reading and napping and sipping mint tea. I have a loving, generous man in my life--who knows how to cook! The house is filled with the savory scent of his chicken soup. This elixir is meant to comfort and cure.

Dave is using onion, leeks, and chard that came from Ryan's huge organic garden. Ryan is another facet of this rich neighborhood tightly linked to my sister. What a privilege to share her world, if for just a few weeks.

Chef and healer

"Only Connect." - E. M. Forster

Home for now.

We are staying in a house of a woman we've never met. Talk about generosity of strangers. Doreen's house is a charming bungalow two blocks from the beach. She's my sister's next-door-neighbor in Leucadia, a little slice of paradise just north of San Diego.

Being here is one of the many sweet coincidences--or serendipities or synchronicities, call them what you will--that have peppered our journey. Dave and I had planned to come here in October to stay at my sister Ann's house while she and her husband surfed and siesta-ed at the tip of Baja.

But--and here's where the details get fun--while Dave and I were in Australia, Doreen and Kit (another neighbor) went to see the Ellen show. And there they won a trip to...Australia!

As a result, Doreen and Kit traveled to Australia shortly after Dave and I had been Down Under. And Doreen offered us her house.

A short walk from the house.

Now we get to spend a couple of weeks next door to family. Doreen happens to return the day after Ann and Bruce take off for Mexico. So we will just pack up and move next door.

Getting here was another matter. Our drive from L.A. to San Diego was fraught with traffic. Silly us, we'd thought the freeways wouldn't be packed on a Saturday mid-day. But we'd neglected the little detail that this is the land of the always-packed freeways.

Combined with the fact that we'd driven from Northern California to L.A. the previous day, we were a bit bedraggled when we hit Leucadia. Imagine how we'd have felt if our lives weren't filled with such generosity.

Uncle Gort

In L.A., we'd spent a night with Nancy and Andy. We've been there so much in the past few months it feels like we should call Gort (the huge robot in the front yard) "Uncle Gort." Nancy had stocked the house with some of our favorite things: yogurt, fruit, coconut milk. We also had a sweet, teary moment when she thanked me for not dying. No wonder she's been my best friend since high school. (For a picture of us at a Doobie Brothers concert in 1980, click here.)

Scarlet and Ann

When we hit Leucadia, my sister treated us to one of my favorite all-time meals: her famous beer-can chicken. Oddly, you impale a chicken on a partly-filled can of beer and BBQ it. I bet this insanely delicious way to cook a chicken originated in trailer parks. Thank god for drunken innovators.

The next day was another BBQ with extended family: Bruce's nephew Bryce, his wife Amber, and their two Uber-adorable children.

Mother and daughter adorables (Ava and Amber)

Sisters

In a short few days, the theme of this trip has become communal gathering around food and drink--oh, and dogs. The next day, Dave and I felt sufficiently rested and settled into Doreen's pad so we made dinner. The tribe this time included Ann, Bruce, their son Beau, and Judith, a family friend. Dave made his blue-ribbon ribs, the smell of which tortured the dogs.

Digging in.

Bex being tortured.

Kit (the other Australia trip winner) lives just a house over with her husband Mark. They met up with Doreen in Australia and returned the other day. Although still a little jet-lagged they threw a party last night in their lovely yard, a field filled with fragrant lavender and fringed with grape vines.

At dusk, we enjoyed the company of the tan, flip-flopped, friendly group. In keeping with coincidences, one of the party guests was Sharon, an Australian. Another was a hilarious, frenetic story-teller named Guy. He was leaving the next day for Europe. He bought a round-trip ticket to London but had no specific plans. It sounds like he's going to show up at the door-step of friends in England, France and Sweden.

In the past I would have lived vicariously through him. Now we're living just like him. Guy is our kind of guy.

His huge slug of a pitbull--the adorable Ivan--roamed the field with the two other guest dogs. The three canines wove around our legs then burst out in a full run, butting bodies like bumper cars.

When the the sky darkened, Kit lit candles. A large screen was set up to show slides from their Australian adventure. And there was Doreen. Dave and I marveled at the fact that she stood in some of the same places we'd just traveled through two months ago. We've never met. We are separated by thousands of miles. But we are living in her home and surrounded by her friends.

It was as though there, under the stars, all of life magically converged. My sister laughed. A dog yipped. Dave's hand touched mine. I was at peace.

“The journey not the arrival matters.” - T. S. Eliot

We rolled in this evening from our trip to Leucadia, a funky surfer town in San Diego's North County, where we visited my sister, her husband and my nephew Brock. He's 15 and spends most of his time when he's not forced to be in school hanging out with his friends fishing, kayaking and playing basketball or soccer. What a life. Just down the hill from one of the most gorgeous beaches in the world, they have a cute little pad with a great patio where most of the non-work living occurs.

The first day my sister and I walked 9 miles on the beach and didn't get to an end. It has a impressive vastness to it. When we were finished we were so hot we jumped into the water. There's something about salt water that's so soothing. Perhaps because being in the ocean is like being in the earth's womb. Or maybe it's like being inside a big margarita.

Another highlight was visiting the home and art studio of Rodney "Rodrigo" McCoubrey, a friend of my sister's. His art--made of recycled materials --is fanciful and meaningful. He turns garbage into beauty. He's a wonderfully quirky guy with incredible amounts of energy. We bought three of his fish pieces.

Back home I got some great news that I'm invited to be a featured reader at the Atlanta Queer Literary Festival in October. I like having a travel plan on the books. Travel is good for the soul: it expands my world, and it also helps me to appreciate home anew.