Consistency and Change
Walking down a street where I once knew every homeowner by name, I realize that there is only one house left, whose occupants I know, and then only because they bought their mother’s house. I used to walk this neighborhood, before I owned a cellphone, confident that if something happened during my midnight strolls, there was someone’s door I could knock on, on every street; sadly, that is no longer the case.
For a while I kept up with who bought Joan or Eva or Sid’s house; but no longer, the people who originally bought those houses have sold them or in some cases, lost them, and now I would not recognize the new owners, if I saw them at the grocery store.
The neighborhood changed because of loss and because people moved away, including me, who like more than a few others here, have left and come back and left again. I look for consistency, as I walk to the house that was once my home, and it is not easy to find; except in those new homeowners, excited by their purchase, who immediately begin the home improvement projects, just as we all once did, adding new plants and lawn art, putting their own touch on what was once Joan or Eva or Sid’s house, but now belongs to the new person.
But I get sad that the house no longer looks the same, as it reminds me that the occupants, which were what truly mattered, have changed. I grieve so much loss, but as I walk by the still well-manicured lawns, on a sunny day, with intermittent sprinkles and light wind, I cannot help but admit that the nameless, to me, family, which bought Frieda’s house, when she moved into an assisted/independent living facility, have improved the way the house looks. They have done a fine job of landscaping the yard, chosen a nice shade of yellow, for the house, and installed light fixtures to compliment the architecture; so why do I take issue with them – they changed things.
The dance between change and consistency can be difficult to master. Change is inevitable and in so many ways change is the catalyst to growth; yet deep in our soul, we also have need for consistency, for the familiarity of sameness, which creates a sense of stability and safety.
As I reach my street, I look at Phil’s house, and wish he were still there. I think he would have appreciated my finds, at the library book sale today: Divided Jerusalem, by Bernard Wasserstein, A Life of Leadership, From the Underground to Industry to Holocaust Remembrance, by Eli Zborowski, Crossing Mandelbaum Gate, Coming of Age Between the Arabs and Israelis, 1956-1978, by Kai Bird, The Fugu Plan, The Untold Story of the Japanese and the Jews during World War II, by Marvin Tokayer and Mary Swartz, Holocaust Memoir Digest, Survivors’ published memories with study Guide and maps, Compiled and Edited by Ester Goldberg, Latinos in the Arts, by Steven Otfinoski, and finally the two books which Phil and I would have chatted about the most, Persian Vocabulary by A.K.S. Lambton, and Dostoevsky, The Mantle of the Prophet, 1871-1881, by Joseph Frank. But alas, I must walk by his house without stopping, while I notice, that Thyu and Twan’s gardenia bush is full of blooms, but there are new people living there, and I go into my own house, the tiniest bit melancholy, until I unlock the door and am welcomed by that beautiful scent. Suddenly, I am reminded to be grateful that Adriana and Marcial, shared their gardenia bush with me – life is different and the same.
As I enter the house, I ponder, for the briefest of seconds, what to do with the books and for a moment, I am lost. I have walked from the library, thus the books are not waiting to gingerly be brought in, from the car, rather they are bulging from my purse, and the two grocery bags, which the lady, at the library, loaded them into. I used to always put my books on the dining table, which is covered in glass to protect the table cloth and the hand embroidered runner, which we bought in Hungary; but that table and its glass are living in Maine. The table which now abides in this dining room, has a table cloth, but no glass, I should not like to put the books and bags on that table. Instead, I lay them down, on the slightly oversized wooden table, by the door, and feel like things are not quite right.
Inevitably, as I walk into my old home, which is now just my house, I feel like an intruder. There are familiar elements and yet, so much is foreign, to me. I imagine this must be what it feels like to go back to a childhood home which is no longer in the family. There are things which have returned from Maine, and when I suddenly spy familiar candle sticks or a favorite doll, a small burst of belonging wells up inside of me, and I bravely go forward, stopping to open the refrigerator, and pleased to find my Syfo Lemon-Lime Naturally Flavored Sparkling Water, I continue, as if I might belong in this house, after all.
I interact with the mailman, the lawn people, and the garbage men; do they know me? Are we exchanging pleasantries because that is what we do, or because they remember me? Do I remember them? I feel like I know them all, well most of them, there are few lawn men who seem unfamiliar, but perhaps the familiarity is simply that we all find ourselves at my house. Tonight we will have dinner with Fran, but for now, I will sit and write these words, at this desk which I own, but does not truly feel like it is mine.
Yet, I can work at this desk. I can sit and look out at a familiar vista, while words dance around my head, and my fingers work to capture a moment that will soon be history; but I struggle to stay put, this environment is not as conducive to reflection, as three or four feet of snow. I do not finish my post, instead I head out the door, down the street, and visit with Nour, who fills my bag with not one, but two kinds of mangos, a fresh papaya, which I watch him pick, a package of seasonings, to make Indian food, and many good wishes. I do not want to leave.
I approach the house and see Nancy’s daughter, who wonders when we will be back, her brother is coming at the end of the month, she tells me, and Nancy is doing well, getting ready to go out to diner, all is fine. Kate arrives with an abundance of sweets and savory’s from our favorite Cuban restaurant, The Versailles, and I rethink accepting Fran’s invitation for meatloaf, we should have invited her for Cuban take-out, no matter, we will bring desert!
All of those things which make a house home are in Maine. Lately, my niece has been housesitting, in New England, feeding the feral cat, who runs away when we approach the porch, to scatter his super, on the top step, and I have started seedlings, which have begun to sprout, while lilies and yes, gardenias bloom, there is even a little tomato growing at the far end of the pool, and I feel like I have found a church, no small thing, which I look forward to attending, with an incredibly friendly congregation, and because in my old age I no longer feel the need to pretend that is does not matter, a church with a Pastor and Pastor’s Wife, who are intellectuals, be still my heart, and I actually think people who are truly seeking God’s will, this is no small thing.
I have no desire to leave Florida, in the morning. Instead, I would like use Nour’s mangos and papaya to make a fabulous chutney, in fact, I think I would call Patty, and invite her to join me, in my efforts; I think she would say yes and enjoy herself.
Another moment of reflection calls out, Patty is brilliant, beautiful, and talented in countless ways; she invited us to her table this week, to partake of her extraordinary creations – a delicious meal, with wonderful company creating a perfect and memorable, but new night. This was the first time I have enjoyed Patty’s triumphs in the kitchen, it was her parent’s kitchen, and her parent’s table, but she was the nights chef – familiar yet different – we need both, or at least I need both.
I go off to Fran’s and we speak for hours, feast, and blow out birthday candles, for Kate, yet again, this week. Fran regales us with stories about Jack, one of her husband, Milton, clients. Jack was apparently a bit of a louse, as a husband, but he knew New York City’s finest French chefs, and would take Fran and Milton to dinner on 44th street, after all of the restaurants had closed, for the night, when the chefs would cook for each other, and those special friends and friends of friends. She talks about Jack shopping list for Milton, when he traveled to Japan, and breaks off to their stay at The Imperial Hotel, in Tokyo, staying in the Frank Lloyd Wright wing. The stories continue and she sighs: That is it, what a life. Indeed, what a life.
I remind Fran that we are leaving in the morning, no one is happy.
It is late, when we come back, to the house. It has been a good day and I am not ready to leave, yet leave I must. There will be a few stops in between here and the house which houses my home, but then I will arrive at this place, which also feels unfamiliar and yet is home. Last time, when I came home, I found a beautiful vintage scarf, from Florida, and an insert from the Los Angeles Times, published at the time that the Los Angeles County Museum of Art, still my favorite museum, moved into its new facility in the 1960’s, gifts from my niece, Hannah, who had been house sitting. They were perfect and left me speechless, as in fact all of her gifts have, since I moved north. These gifts were especially perfect because they were gifts given for no other reason than she wanted to; they were purchases she made on her recent trip to California. I am not expecting such offerings this week, but I so appreciated her thoughtfulness.
This is going to be an interesting summer for her, and because of that house in Maine, I will be able to participate in the joys she will be experiencing. Oh, I feel so torn between here and there – no, I feel torn between the people I love here, there, and in so many other places. I am not going to be able to gather you all together, I understand, but I miss you when I do not see you and rejoice when I do.
For the last several years, my life has been defined by unsolicited change, none of it welcomed; or so that is how I feel. My Mother’s loss is the greatest burden that I bear, but there have been others, too many others. Change has permeated every aspect of my life; and I so desperately want to stop and stand still for a moment, but while I have witnessed the change loss brings, I have also been blessed to share in the change that new jobs, school graduations, and true love bring. Perhaps change is the most steadfast consistency in life, and what matters most is not where you experience the change, but with whom you share the moment. I need to pack, the road calls. That Is All For Now
