Home is Where the Heart Breaks
We're now in the early days of a chilly, wet Portland fall. When we left on our South African adventure summer was playing the role of over-achiever, but when we returned summer had been vanquished and fall was upon us. We saw spring in South Africa and you can't complain about spring twice in one year, but I still missed those sweet Portland late summer days.
Monday, the last dry day, I walked to work through the crisp cold air, past homeless people hidden in doorways and on park lawns, under piles of blankets, and men with those horrible leaf blowers, filling the air with noise, dust and gas fumes. These past few mornings it was cold and wet. The rain chased the blowers away and forced the homeless deeper into the cracks. Already my fellow bus-commuters look unhappy and damply disheveled. It's too cold too early. We need time to adjust.
It's as if Portland feels I have been two-timing on her with an old girlfriend and is showing me her displeasure. Portland. It's flawed, but I love the place. It was good to be back. I was even happy to be back at work. Portland is home, a great home... but it's not my only home. I still love South Africa. Big old Johannesburg too; ugly in some ways, but still beautiful to me.
Fall's sudden arrival in Portland has left trees confused and many remain stubbornly green, while others seem to have changed color too quickly. This confusion I understand all too well; embrace the changing colors, or cling to spring; move forward or cling to the past.
Many of you are likely wondering where the blog entries from me are/were and if I'm the same Grant who once blogged every sweet detail of minor events. How come my long silence on our South African trip? I've blogged more about bus rides after all. Well, I'm still stewing on the churning conflicts and emotions in my head. Two days there and I realized that I'd be happy never to leave again, and yet I was glad to be back in Portland. I have two homes. I want to be a polygamist, but life seems to have declared me a bigamist and forces me to be true to only one of them.
I had not seen my brother and sister in over 9 years. They have both changed. I've changed. We're all older. Life has taken it's toll in the usual thousand small bites. The nibbles usually pass unnoticed, but they cannot be ignored when so much time has passed. Then it's a shock, a practical joker leaping out from some hidden place and scaring the bejesus out of you. Has it really been that long? Yes, of course it has. Time waits for no man (and for no cliche) and we're no exception. I've missed so much.
My little adventure abroad in the Americas turned into so much more than I expected. I've gained so much, and lost so much. Circumstances kept me here when I always planned to return, so I remain conflicted, without the catharsis of a true émigré. Not that it's that simple for them either mind you, but they do stubbornly cling to their choice, while I slipped quickly and firmly back into my old ways. And Johannesburg embraced me.
I got fat in several ways, not least of which was, well, real fat, sampling a thousand old favorites and delicacies. I had to try them all. The food was good. The food was very good. Superior quality of ingredients perhaps, plus the advantages of a big city. There were the sights, smells and sounds; every day we were awoken by bird calls reawakened in my memory and the smell of familiar spring flowers. I sampled old haunts, my old Westdene house, grimy Hillbrow, favorite malls, restaurant chains, stores. I readjusted to smaller cars, big-city traffic and manual (stick-shift). I followed old shortcuts and back routes to be reminded where they went. I followed my nose and found my way every time I tried, save the one time I was confused by roads built since I'd left.
I rediscovered old friends, my old SF club, and discovered new friends known to me only on Facebook before. We were so very warmly welcomed. Simone who seemingly declared herself our trip fairy godmother and helped us with everything from tourist tips to social hookups, even helping me get a debit card from my reluctant bank. Endlessly smiling Carla, who knows how to really laugh, to embrace a laugh, who shares yummy wines and great big hugs. Ian and Gail who remain the heartbeat of SFSA, like an aunt and uncle to me. Just seeing them makes me happy.
Franz, an old friend and a new friend. He loaned us a phone with cheap internet, and a GPS, both of which impacted our trip hugely. He helped me with my electronics and gave me my quote of the trip about a US device I had that could not be converted to SA power and had died, saying, "The magic was gone in a puff of smoke." Vanessa, still with that sweet smile and warmth, still saving the world in many varied ways, still full of great information. Steven and his family, somewhat unchanged and untouched by time, still great to chat to, a model of how much you can achieve in Jozi.
It was good to see them all, and others. They filled many of our days and evenings with good company, laughter and fun.
At every turn my heart swelled. Places I no longer realized were empty filled up inside me. There was a kind of joy just under my surface, the kind that makes you want to hop around the room and whoop. There were plenty of flaws on display too, crime-induced high walls everywhere, decked with electric wire. Signs that Apartheid's legacy still lingers strong as ever alongside signs of change and improvement. A city straining at the seams. A big city that is too fast paced, too competitive, too rat racey.
Further, in balance to this, my trip was quite schizophrenic, providing stress and depression. I had to wrap up my old life, a storage unit, insurance policies, bank accounts. The storage unit was the worst, filled with the remnants of my old life, and my mother's. I remember how shattered she was when she was forced from her home and into her final care. Her life had been reduced to furniture she could no longer use... and boxes. Nothing left but boxes. And here again were some of her boxes. And now, boxes of my own. This was mostly the most sentimental stuff left. Most of it had long since been given away or donated to charity. What was left was what we thought we'd keep; books, music, ornaments, mementoes... memories. I'd spent far more on this stuff than it was worth.
Sifting through that lot was very time-consuming. As it ate up our vacation time it also tore me apart inside, like I was amputating one of my own limbs. Most of it had to be left behind, at least what had survived the rats. It was heartbreaking, even with Theresa my constant helper and ally, and balm to my wounds. Even so, there were many days on this trip that I slept poorly, was woken early by stressful thoughts, or took a pill to sleep at all. This was not really what I'd expected from this trip.
Much was lost, but I found the family photos. If I had to pick only one thing to have survived, that would have been it.
And family, we few, we unhappy few, we band of siblings. We three. It was nice to see my brother again. We owe each other so much. We got through that childhood hell together; endlessly fighting; stanch allies nevertheless. We only really appreciated this fact later. That love runs deeper than our foundations. He and his wife Monica really took to Theresa too. She charmed them as she has charmed us all; sweetest person I've ever known. We were all closer after this trip.
Theresa, my goodwill ambassador. What an ally I have in my new wife. She was a big help with every challenge on this trip. This included helping me reconnect with my younger sister. The two of them also connected.
Once I was like a father to my sister and we were very close, but my departure for the US interrupted things at a time when, unbeknown to me, she needed me most. Dark things came between us. Misunderstandings that distance could not mend overshadowed everything else. I pinged her on her birthday and she agreed to meet me. That first meeting was intense, Nicky and her protective husband were full of anger and challenges. We answered every question, every challenge, with honesty and love. They were receptive. We were receptive. Old connections were strengthened and new ones made. Hatchets were buried. When the trip started my sister was not talking to me, when it ended she cried for two days because I was leaving again. This is terrible, but also a small miracle, one I tear up about just writing.
I left her behind to start my own great journey, one that included a long process to heal myself, to rescued myself. I was able to move on from great mistakes and insecurities. I was able to find this happy place. When I left South Africa I told my ex that I was shaking up my tree, and I meant it on more levels than even I realized. I was a slow learner, a poor student, but I got there eventually. I'm in a good place. Still, there is regret. Sweet Nicky, how bravely you face your deep scars. I'm sorry I was not better able to help you.
While I was there my sister had her first child, my first blood nephew, a sweet little boy, quiet and calm. He played a huge role in this new beginning, this family rebirth. Long may it continue.
I miss all of them. In some ways we were closer on this trip than we've ever been, though familiarity is needed to flesh this out... and we'll have none.
Damn and blast. I'm so conflicted. There is so much bubbling around inside me that my mind is trying not to face it and has forced itself into a calm space atop all this, oil on the surface of stormy water. How can you have two homes? These momentous past few months have seen me marry my wonderful Theresa and in the process be constantly reminded just how good we have it here, how wonderful our friends are, how comfortably we have slotted in. A progressive, thoughtful, caring, sweet city, full of art, good food and adorable quirks. We belong here... but I belong there too. It calls to me.
I have the sky miles to return to South Africa... but not the capital. Next time I see my infant nephew he'll likely be walking and talking. His mother and uncle will again have been ravaged by life's little nibbles. How can this be? How do you decide between two lives like this? How do you make this work? Is there some way to have your cake and eat it too?
So this is what fills my head every time I sit down to blog about the trip. There is also much that I probably cannot post about here, conflicts, suffering and massive challenges. Secrets, skeletons in the family closet, sorrow. Were does obligation to self end and the desire to help begin? Do I let my leaves change color, or do I cling to the green of my youth? Or do I strive for that improbable goal of spring twice a year?
Through it all I'm still upbeat. I'm seeing the sun through the clouds and am not being pushed down by the cold and the rain. Overall it was a great trip, a wonderful trip. The memory banks are full. The trip gave me exactly what I needed, even in the sadness. When we left the rains had come and soon spring there will be in full bloom, a new beginning on that end.
It's been a good year, a great year. There is much to look forward to. Much to be thankful for. I'll stew for a while. I'll write about it and find understanding through my writing. It'll get clearer. Spring will return.
Monday, the last dry day, I walked to work through the crisp cold air, past homeless people hidden in doorways and on park lawns, under piles of blankets, and men with those horrible leaf blowers, filling the air with noise, dust and gas fumes. These past few mornings it was cold and wet. The rain chased the blowers away and forced the homeless deeper into the cracks. Already my fellow bus-commuters look unhappy and damply disheveled. It's too cold too early. We need time to adjust.
It's as if Portland feels I have been two-timing on her with an old girlfriend and is showing me her displeasure. Portland. It's flawed, but I love the place. It was good to be back. I was even happy to be back at work. Portland is home, a great home... but it's not my only home. I still love South Africa. Big old Johannesburg too; ugly in some ways, but still beautiful to me.
Fall's sudden arrival in Portland has left trees confused and many remain stubbornly green, while others seem to have changed color too quickly. This confusion I understand all too well; embrace the changing colors, or cling to spring; move forward or cling to the past.
Many of you are likely wondering where the blog entries from me are/were and if I'm the same Grant who once blogged every sweet detail of minor events. How come my long silence on our South African trip? I've blogged more about bus rides after all. Well, I'm still stewing on the churning conflicts and emotions in my head. Two days there and I realized that I'd be happy never to leave again, and yet I was glad to be back in Portland. I have two homes. I want to be a polygamist, but life seems to have declared me a bigamist and forces me to be true to only one of them.
I had not seen my brother and sister in over 9 years. They have both changed. I've changed. We're all older. Life has taken it's toll in the usual thousand small bites. The nibbles usually pass unnoticed, but they cannot be ignored when so much time has passed. Then it's a shock, a practical joker leaping out from some hidden place and scaring the bejesus out of you. Has it really been that long? Yes, of course it has. Time waits for no man (and for no cliche) and we're no exception. I've missed so much.
My little adventure abroad in the Americas turned into so much more than I expected. I've gained so much, and lost so much. Circumstances kept me here when I always planned to return, so I remain conflicted, without the catharsis of a true émigré. Not that it's that simple for them either mind you, but they do stubbornly cling to their choice, while I slipped quickly and firmly back into my old ways. And Johannesburg embraced me.
I got fat in several ways, not least of which was, well, real fat, sampling a thousand old favorites and delicacies. I had to try them all. The food was good. The food was very good. Superior quality of ingredients perhaps, plus the advantages of a big city. There were the sights, smells and sounds; every day we were awoken by bird calls reawakened in my memory and the smell of familiar spring flowers. I sampled old haunts, my old Westdene house, grimy Hillbrow, favorite malls, restaurant chains, stores. I readjusted to smaller cars, big-city traffic and manual (stick-shift). I followed old shortcuts and back routes to be reminded where they went. I followed my nose and found my way every time I tried, save the one time I was confused by roads built since I'd left.
I rediscovered old friends, my old SF club, and discovered new friends known to me only on Facebook before. We were so very warmly welcomed. Simone who seemingly declared herself our trip fairy godmother and helped us with everything from tourist tips to social hookups, even helping me get a debit card from my reluctant bank. Endlessly smiling Carla, who knows how to really laugh, to embrace a laugh, who shares yummy wines and great big hugs. Ian and Gail who remain the heartbeat of SFSA, like an aunt and uncle to me. Just seeing them makes me happy.
Franz, an old friend and a new friend. He loaned us a phone with cheap internet, and a GPS, both of which impacted our trip hugely. He helped me with my electronics and gave me my quote of the trip about a US device I had that could not be converted to SA power and had died, saying, "The magic was gone in a puff of smoke." Vanessa, still with that sweet smile and warmth, still saving the world in many varied ways, still full of great information. Steven and his family, somewhat unchanged and untouched by time, still great to chat to, a model of how much you can achieve in Jozi.
It was good to see them all, and others. They filled many of our days and evenings with good company, laughter and fun.
At every turn my heart swelled. Places I no longer realized were empty filled up inside me. There was a kind of joy just under my surface, the kind that makes you want to hop around the room and whoop. There were plenty of flaws on display too, crime-induced high walls everywhere, decked with electric wire. Signs that Apartheid's legacy still lingers strong as ever alongside signs of change and improvement. A city straining at the seams. A big city that is too fast paced, too competitive, too rat racey.
Further, in balance to this, my trip was quite schizophrenic, providing stress and depression. I had to wrap up my old life, a storage unit, insurance policies, bank accounts. The storage unit was the worst, filled with the remnants of my old life, and my mother's. I remember how shattered she was when she was forced from her home and into her final care. Her life had been reduced to furniture she could no longer use... and boxes. Nothing left but boxes. And here again were some of her boxes. And now, boxes of my own. This was mostly the most sentimental stuff left. Most of it had long since been given away or donated to charity. What was left was what we thought we'd keep; books, music, ornaments, mementoes... memories. I'd spent far more on this stuff than it was worth.
Sifting through that lot was very time-consuming. As it ate up our vacation time it also tore me apart inside, like I was amputating one of my own limbs. Most of it had to be left behind, at least what had survived the rats. It was heartbreaking, even with Theresa my constant helper and ally, and balm to my wounds. Even so, there were many days on this trip that I slept poorly, was woken early by stressful thoughts, or took a pill to sleep at all. This was not really what I'd expected from this trip.
Much was lost, but I found the family photos. If I had to pick only one thing to have survived, that would have been it.
And family, we few, we unhappy few, we band of siblings. We three. It was nice to see my brother again. We owe each other so much. We got through that childhood hell together; endlessly fighting; stanch allies nevertheless. We only really appreciated this fact later. That love runs deeper than our foundations. He and his wife Monica really took to Theresa too. She charmed them as she has charmed us all; sweetest person I've ever known. We were all closer after this trip.
Theresa, my goodwill ambassador. What an ally I have in my new wife. She was a big help with every challenge on this trip. This included helping me reconnect with my younger sister. The two of them also connected.
Once I was like a father to my sister and we were very close, but my departure for the US interrupted things at a time when, unbeknown to me, she needed me most. Dark things came between us. Misunderstandings that distance could not mend overshadowed everything else. I pinged her on her birthday and she agreed to meet me. That first meeting was intense, Nicky and her protective husband were full of anger and challenges. We answered every question, every challenge, with honesty and love. They were receptive. We were receptive. Old connections were strengthened and new ones made. Hatchets were buried. When the trip started my sister was not talking to me, when it ended she cried for two days because I was leaving again. This is terrible, but also a small miracle, one I tear up about just writing.
I left her behind to start my own great journey, one that included a long process to heal myself, to rescued myself. I was able to move on from great mistakes and insecurities. I was able to find this happy place. When I left South Africa I told my ex that I was shaking up my tree, and I meant it on more levels than even I realized. I was a slow learner, a poor student, but I got there eventually. I'm in a good place. Still, there is regret. Sweet Nicky, how bravely you face your deep scars. I'm sorry I was not better able to help you.
While I was there my sister had her first child, my first blood nephew, a sweet little boy, quiet and calm. He played a huge role in this new beginning, this family rebirth. Long may it continue.
I miss all of them. In some ways we were closer on this trip than we've ever been, though familiarity is needed to flesh this out... and we'll have none.
Damn and blast. I'm so conflicted. There is so much bubbling around inside me that my mind is trying not to face it and has forced itself into a calm space atop all this, oil on the surface of stormy water. How can you have two homes? These momentous past few months have seen me marry my wonderful Theresa and in the process be constantly reminded just how good we have it here, how wonderful our friends are, how comfortably we have slotted in. A progressive, thoughtful, caring, sweet city, full of art, good food and adorable quirks. We belong here... but I belong there too. It calls to me.
I have the sky miles to return to South Africa... but not the capital. Next time I see my infant nephew he'll likely be walking and talking. His mother and uncle will again have been ravaged by life's little nibbles. How can this be? How do you decide between two lives like this? How do you make this work? Is there some way to have your cake and eat it too?
So this is what fills my head every time I sit down to blog about the trip. There is also much that I probably cannot post about here, conflicts, suffering and massive challenges. Secrets, skeletons in the family closet, sorrow. Were does obligation to self end and the desire to help begin? Do I let my leaves change color, or do I cling to the green of my youth? Or do I strive for that improbable goal of spring twice a year?
Through it all I'm still upbeat. I'm seeing the sun through the clouds and am not being pushed down by the cold and the rain. Overall it was a great trip, a wonderful trip. The memory banks are full. The trip gave me exactly what I needed, even in the sadness. When we left the rains had come and soon spring there will be in full bloom, a new beginning on that end.
It's been a good year, a great year. There is much to look forward to. Much to be thankful for. I'll stew for a while. I'll write about it and find understanding through my writing. It'll get clearer. Spring will return.