where did you come from, where did you go

I spent today at the Fair Hill Scottish Games watching dudes in tartan skirts play bagpipes and throw logs (theoretically) in flying arcs through the air.  More accurately, kilts and caber tossing.  And as kilts and caber tossing are outdoor activities, and it was a nearly perfect day outside, I spent today in the sun and my brain is fried.  I make bullet points about different blog topics throughout my week, and maybe I should transition my post-grad blog to a "daily thoughts on" format after the 1-year mark.  But I do enjoy reflective essays.

It didn't occur to me until we were waiting in line to pay the exorbitant entrance fee that I have Scottish blood!  Last Christmas, in fact, Granma was emptying out an old Ross steamer trunk and found a tie made of our clan tartan, which she gave to my brother, much to my dismay.  Yes, I am aware that I am not a man and therefore have little use for a tie (since Avril Lavigne slipped out of fashion) but I have a lot of use for heritage, and for the stories often couched in artifacts.

According to the "find your name" booth at the fair, the first Rosses set foot on this side of the pond in 1651 and '52.  Assuming that my Ross ancestors were not unrecognized stowaways, carriers of my blood have been shaping their corners of U.S. History for 350 years.  And now some of us continue to dip our pens in that pot--for example, the pen that inscribed "Ross" in the "middle name" slot on my brother's birth certificate.  Cool.  The clan lives on!  Although sadly it does not appear to have an active faction in the tri-state area.

I've been thinking about heritage and origin a lot since coming back from the Midwest this week, feeling myself lock into place as part of that landscape, and feeling that landscape lock into place within me...  And then being rudely ripped from that landscape, with a pair of psychological bolt cutters, and feeling disoriented upon my return to the Philly airport and to my house and my job and my life in Wilmington.  Jason said I didn't "come back" to Wilmington until Wednesday--2 days after my physical arrival.  Not coincidentally, I think, 2 days is approximately the amount of time it takes to drive (fairly comfortably) from Minneapolis to Wilmington.

Thesis: Jet planes fuck up our biological/psychological clocks.  You know how our eyes take about 45 minutes to fully adjust to darkness?  And the "twilight" part of the day lasts about 45 minutes.  (At least that's what my freshman year senior counselor told me, and I am inclined to believe it.)  There's some beautiful ecological symmetry there.

As much as I would like to dwell on ecological symmetry forever, I'm straying from the crux of the current issue.  Which is, eternally, belonging; originating; coming and going.  Pinpointing the location of my heart at any given moment.

I will probably never find complete security in this realm, and maybe that's just an occupational hazard of being human.  At some point I may also stop realizing new aspects and explanations and solutions to my rootlessness.  But I can never deny value in realizing the same thing over and over and over again: Love is a decision, and homes spring up where you invest in them.

For a second there, back in Delaware and not even able to pretend I was happy about it, I toyed with the idea of cutting all ties and heading back to Sunny V, St. Croix Falls, Wisconsin.  To the physical embodiment of my ideal life.  The place I felt most happy, most at home.

But life is not ideal.  In fact, as we have found, the most beautiful moments are bittersweet.  The most beautiful moments are the ones that mix tears and laughter, the ones that finish chords of sadness, anger, disillusionment, with a flourish of hope.

And I have to remind myself how long it takes to turn a new place, new people, into home.  And how much energy it takes on my part, how many moments of feeling certain I would, finally, once and for all, give up.  Funny enough, it is those moments that make new homes possible.  Those moments slap me in the face and tell me straight to get a grip and work out the situation at hand.

I almost give up a lot.

And those aren't moments of weakness.  They lay the foundation for the moments I look back on and say, "Thank God that happened."  They lay the foundation for moments of glory.

ridin' solo

Now, the state of crisis seems to be settling down.  (Knock on wood!)  I'm starting to feel more secure, or at least rooted, here.  My energy level is up, which means I'm getting a lot of good things done at work, and I'm usually in a pretty good mood.

But it also means I'm getting antsy.  Last year I started working out regularly, hoping it would help me focus on my work, and it did -- but then I just had so much energy I would stay at the gym for an hour... then an hour and a half... then two hours... then I'd go there after class and stay until I had to run up to Buntrock as the caf was closing.  I don't know how much weight I lost, and that really had nothing to do with me being there.  The point is, I realized that I was living with this unsettled feeling of something being wrong and unresolved in my life outside of the gym.

Which is where I am now.  Now that I'm settling into my job, depositing a few paychecks, and putting together a living space I'm excited about, one of my old discarded worries is resurfacing.

I'm lonely.

Back in The Bubble, my friends and I would sit around in the quad on a sunny afternoon, eating ice cream and dancing around barefoot, and worrying that once we left St. Olaf we wouldn't be able to meet anyone as cool as the people we were with.  We always reassured each other, "Oh, but you're interesting and fun and smart... and plus you're cute!  You won't have any trouble at all."  And I legitimately put it out of my mind as a non-issue.

But here I am, stuck in between 5 different highways, 15 minutes from just about any-where, and I don't know which-where to go.  I know that I could meet people I'd get along with at a poetry open mic: there are none, it seems, in the entire state of Delaware.  (Guess I'd better go to Philly...?)  I could meet people at a coffee shop, if I went there often enough.  I could meet people in liquor stores or co-ops or bars (not ideal) or even at the post office.  There is the endless problem that 18-to-25-year-olds seem to exist off the beaten track of any place I've ever been: it's the same in Amsterdam, in St. Croix Falls, and even in Queens when I went out with Karin and Audrey.  We're an incredibly hard demographic to tap.  We probably just drink beer with our friends in our basements.

The thing is, it takes time.  I want to meet someone I've seen around often enough, or who knows the people behind the counter at any given establishment, that it stands as a character reference.  Alex wrote me this beautiful email about introductions, and how the most important people in our lives never get introduced because it's too complicated to go into it.  I want that.  But I have to put in the time to get my own character reference and my own inarticulable introduction, and we all know I'm the most impatient person ever.

It will come.  It always does.  It'll hit the breaking point and I'll go and do something drastic that will just blow the whole problem right out of the water.  That's usually how I fix the big things.

And until then I'll just be aware of my anxiety, settle into my new space.  I'll do things I enjoy doing, and on the way there I'll make eyes at hotties in cars that pass me on the highway.  I'll ask for a Saturday off now and then so I can go visit my brother, call my far-flung mainstays on the telephone, and try to track down some Delaware postcards for the far-flung people that have had a positive impact on my life.  I'll make it.  I always do.