On an unusually overcast day that looks more like the latter half of October than August I am back with an old familiar friend. It’s the first day of another mask mandate here, but sitting at the window sipping my medium roast, ferries slowly crossing the Sound in front of me, I get to keep mine sitting idly on the counter next to me. I count this place as an old familiar friend because for the better part of 10 years I sat weekly in this space and processed life around me. It was very much life at three miles an hour … at least it was for those walking past me each morning as I sat with this very same drink choice and my headphones. After moving away, I continued to write in a number of places around my new neighborhoods, but it was always special the few times I was able to venture back here. Mostly I would make a trip over when I needed to somehow reconnect … sometimes in a rut … sometimes just needing to remember a bit of who I was. Even though we moved back two years ago … and this time to a place nearly overlooking this precious spot … I never really returned to this seat … for a million different reasons and no reason at all. But here I am. I need this space now, quite possibly more than I ever have.
When I was so much younger I spent a great deal of time in the mountains and forests of the Adirondack mountains. Much of it was alongside my grandfather who taught me a great deal about observing my surroundings hoping to help me keep from getting lost. He gave me my first compass … a vintage gem his father had left him from his time in the First World War. I learned at an early age to always check for North when entering the woods. After that, walk at a pace that gives you the ability to observe all that is around you…and stop once in awhile to take in the landmarks, the terrain, the position of the sun. I developed a keen sense of direction that has stayed with me. I never considered the possibility that I could become lost, even in some of the most remote parts of the country. No matter how unfamiliar the territory was after that, I never had to use it to find my way out… but I always knew I could.
For more than a dozen years my practice of writing had kept me in and around a pace that I could process all that I was experiencing … in my faith communities, in my relationships, in my neighborhood being. It was an opportunity to stop for a moment, look around, connect with, and learn from my place. I’m fairly certain it kept me from getting lost. In May of last year, like much of life around me, that all came to an uncomfortable stop. Suddenly there was too much for me to process even through writing. I wrote a post that was intended to be the first of a series on connecting within your neighborhood. I never wrote another. I couldn’t write another. I had imagined the lockdown as an incredible gift of time to read and write prolifically. I even imagined finally getting a decent jump on writing the book I had always dreamed of writing… and now I couldn’t even write a paragraph… or even a solid compelling and coherent sentence. My internal compass had been lost and without it I had no idea which way North was. What followed I guess was inevitable. Fear. I became unusually fearful in a time and place where there was plenty of motivation to feel that way. I had always imagined that I could add something to the greater conversation … that my words helped lift up situations and turn them in my hands in different directions, allowing different views and making room for differing opinions. I no longer held that view. For the first time in memory, I didn’t feel I had anything to say. When dealing with the volatile emotions of very young children, my wife has always been conscious of calling on them to “use your words”. In the midst of all we were experiencing… all of the feelings, emotions, observations that I would have normally processed through using my words threatened to overtake me … or at least that’s how I felt. She became my compass … encouraging me to establish a counseling relationship, leading out in spaces that I had become fearful of, and always encouraging me to use my words.
So this morning, with her encouragement, once more I am back in a familiar space trying to process. This post is my showing up to write about what I see and experience when I slow down long enough to observe. The fear has dissipated. Surrounded by the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, inspired by runners on the beach, envious of those gliding by on the ferries, amused by the dogs waiting patiently on their humans, I am once again remembering where North is.