A couple of weeks ago, my sister posted about blogging. I meant to post a comment about the genuine affection I feel for some of the people I've come to "know" through this online medium. But at the same time, there is an intimacy that comes with physical friendships that can't be replicated virtually. Although many friendships in the flesh rarely skim the intimate, deeply personal feelings that get written up in a blog, which is a diary of sorts after all, the actual presence of another person creates a sense of connection that cements a friendship as well or better than the soul baring of blogging.
And the physical absence of person usually ends up with the gradual fading of those feelings, unless regular reminders - letters, phone calls, and, ok, facebooking - keep them present. Not to fear, Husband: regular reminders of you are everywhere, especially in that thick gold band on my finger. (And in those blue eyes on all our kids.)
And so for the past few weeks, we have been logging a lot of miles in the GMC in order to reconnect physically with various family members and friends: at a wedding in Pennsylvania, siteseeing in Baltimore and northern Virginia, camping in Ohio, and spending lots of quality time on my parents'porches with my siblings and cousins and coffee.
A lot of people thought I was crazy for taking this trip, but the kids are actually pretty good in the car. They seem to needle each other less when confined to tight spaces. And they need to see and hug (or wrestle with) their cousins and grandparents regularly in order to establish that intimacy that withstands distance and years, giving them identity and connection to a community that will never consider them strangers, no matter how long or far away they move.
Needless to say, we were all overjoyed to reach our final destination - not just because it meant an end for the moment to seat belts and gas station bathrooms. We were back in the proverbial arms of those who love us and the place where we belong, where we don't have to feel a sense of indebtedness when we ask someone to watch our children or refill our coffee cup.
Returning to the land of my birth makes me just as happy as I thought it would. Part of the homecoming ritual is making a tour of the property to see what has changed, to greet the horses and cows and chickens, to reacquaint ourselves with the places we love. (Plug for All the Places to Love, a picture book by Patricia MacLachan that always makes me cry.) Everything is green, green, green: lush and jungle- like. The summer wildflowers are in full glory: daylilies, trumpet vine, yarrow, Queen Anne's lace, purple vetch, at least three clovers: purple and white and sweet yellow, daisies and fleabane, cornflowers, giant mullein, thistles, sweet cecily, milkweed, wild roses by the cascade. And the birdlife seems to have proliferated since I last was here: bluebirds by the score, martins, yellow belly flickers, barn swallows, scarlet tanagers, orioles, redwinged blackbirds, wild turkeys and their poults, red-headed woodpeckers working away at the log house. Reason enough to see why the nouvelle rural feel so smug about their lifestyle choice. And why I wouldn't mind joining them.
Admittedly, our visit hasn't been a perfect idyll. The sky isn't always ultramarine blue with polka clouds; we've had days of thunderstorms and mini-tornadoes. Poison ivy and horseflies are everywhere. Sometimes I get tired of talking. The kids still engage in plenty of squabbles and petty irritations and whining. And I've been lonely for an absent husband's companionship on walks down the gravel drive and anxious to sit with him on the back porch swing. To be expected, of course. After we leave I'll be looking forward to our next return and daydreaming about settling nearby whenever my husband's Navy career is over. Sometimes I wonder whether Wendell Berry's emphasis on the importance of place to our identity and sense of well-being isn't overstated: we haven't been miserable anywhere we've been sent by the Navy. But then, how to explain the happiness of being here?
