Thank God for Loving

This week marks the 40th anniversary of the legalisation of marriages like James' and mine. On June 12, 1967, the U.S. Supreme Court decided in the case of Loving vs. Virginia:

Marriage is one of the 'basic civil rights of man,' fundamental to our very existence and survival ... The Fourteenth Amendment requires that the freedom of choice to marry not be restricted by invidious racial discriminations. Under our Constitution, the freedom to marry, or not marry, a person of another race resides with the individual and cannot be infringed by the State. (Thanks to Karen at Chookooloonks for this.)

In other words, less than 10 years before James and I were born, our union would have been illegal. This is just one of the many reasons I'm glad to be alive in this era, despite its many problems. This, central air conditioning, and Rita's gelatis.

Here's to all loving couples, no matter what they look like!

p.s. Don't you just love that the defendants' name in the 1967 case was "Loving"? How perfect is that? It's like a dentist named Dennis Tooth. Or a podiatrist named Paul Foot. There's been some research into how names impact our lives. Check out the quirky science.

One life must be enough

When I wrote this week's Sunday Scribblings musings on Town & Country, I was thinking of something that Linford Detweiler of Over the Rhine wrote in a little booklet called Northern Spy Number One: Crawl Low Under Smoke. I couldn't find it at the time, but found a portion of it copied in my journal from June 1997. He says it so beautifully:

One life is hardly enough. I've had to kill so many lives to be alive in this one. The college professor life. The life lived in the South with the brave dancing words full of sweet storm clouds, grace and the reign of laughter. And me struggling with a first collection of short stories.

The life on the Northeast Ohio farm with mist like the secret birthing night breath of angels coming up off the five a.m. fields and the grey birds praising the new coming day in their secret symphonic language, full of mercy and foreshadowing. The life of the pianist braving The Well-Tempered Clavier, making the Mozart glimmer with purity, getting the warm fire of the Chopin Nocturnes and Preludes and Etudes under the palms of miracle hands, making Ravel's impressionist poems come in and out of focus, breathing all the while.

The young are apple trees. We prune off many limbs so that we might bear a little fruit. One life must be enough, but damn. (p. 18)

Yes, Linford, yes. Damn.

Sunday Scribblings: Town Mouse & Country Mouse

We give up a thousand lives to live just one.

I could be an actor, waiting tables in New York City.

I could be a college professor, all tweedy with cat-eye glasses, enduring New England winters.

I could be a Peace Corps worker, somewhere hot and humid with giant bugs that I learn not to fear.

I could be a radio producer in Chicago or Seattle.

I could own a horse farm deep in the mountains of North Carolina.

I could work with political refugees in London.

I could run a bed and breakfast in Nova Scotia.

I could make jewelry and textiles in San Francisco.

I could live in a loft, a flat, a studio apartment, a farm house.

I could walk out my door to the forest. To a coffee shop. To the beach.

I could be.

And I am. I am living in a Pittsburgh suburb, struggling to figure out what it means to be a writer, and a self-employed one at that.

The grass is always greener, the sky bluer, the living easier. Over there. Wherever we are not. Just over the fence or across the tracks or around the bend or beyond the sea. Anywhere but here is where we want to be.

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When I chose a college, I wanted a small, non-urban campus that was no more than three hours from my home. I ended up at a lovely school, two hours away, where I made wonderful friends and learned much about myself and the world. I was where I was meant to be.

After leaving my idyllic college years behind, I moved to London for a year. It was exciting and scary. Living abroad was a dream come true. I made wonderful friends and had fabulous experiences. But I was also lonely a lot of the time. Walking past houses at twilight would fill me with profound sadness. The light inside was so inviting. Even ugly little houses looked cozy because they were homes. People lived there with families. I lived in a room at the YMCA. But despite my lonliness, I was where I was meant to be.

Today, I live about 45 minutes outside of Pittsburgh, the most livable city in America. I'm also equidistant to the Laurel Highlands, home to gems such as Fallingwater and myriad state parks. My location means that I escape the traffic of the city and the isolation of the country. But it also means that I have to drive 35 minutes to get Indian food. It's an equal drive if I want to take a hike or sit by a rushing stream. I have the best and worst of both worlds. I live in a sort of suburban purgatory.

I daydream about moving. But I can't make up my mind. I can see myself in a trendy loft apartment, with cultural amenities just steps from my door. But then I'd miss the green open spaces and hillsides heavy with trees. I can see myself in a 100-year-old farmhouse with acres of land and gardens galore. But then I'd long for easy access to the theatre and cafes.

Town Mouse and Country Mouse live in me, side-by-side. They argue over who has the best cheese. But mostly, they try to be happy where we are. When they're not bickering, they say encouraging things like:

"Listen here," says Town Mouse. "You live less than hour from America's most livable city. Stop whining, chickie. If you want 'cultural amenities' that badly, get in the damn car and drive to them! Okay, so it's not London with it's convenient maze of public underground tunnels, but you can afford gasoline, even at this high price. Go get your urban groove on!"

Equally emphatic, country mouse says, "Listen here, sweetie pie. You have a big backyard and plenty of trees around. Sure, you can see your neighbors' houses from your deck, but you know you'd feel anxious out in the middle of nowhere with just the cows and crickets to watch over you. If you need some more fresh air, take a short drive to the mountains. I know you don't like to burn too much fossil fuel, but you don't commute to a job. So treat yourself to an afternoon in nature. After all, it's oh-so-close."

The suburbs have a bad reputation of being full of box stores and soccer moms. Sadly, too much of that stereotype is true. But for now, this is where I live. And there is beauty and love here. Whenever I start to feel restless or ungrateful, I remember those cozy English homes. It's trite, but true: Home is where your heart is.

Last month I went to New York City for a writing conference. I was excited for the big city buzz, but knew that I'd be relegated to the tourist traps since I had very little time and no practical knowledge of the city. And then I met fellow writer and conference goer Kelly, an Austin native who's lived in NYC for about seven years. We hit it off like old friends and she saved me from tourist trap hell by having an extra concert ticket for Mason Jennings and the willingness to show me a tiny bit of her New York. We ate at a crazy Indian restaurant (which deserves it's own blog post) and had a great time.

My city-envy was on full display. But Kelly admitted that she might eventually like to get away from the bright lights. Being the only writer in a square mile seemed like a refreshing concept to her. It was another good reminder to appreciate the grass in my backyard as well as the pavement on my street.

I may have given up a thousand lives to live this one, but I get to live this one. My responsibility is to do that where I am. And for now, this is where I live. I am where I am meant to be.

Where do you live?

Read others' thoughts on this topic at Sunday Scribblings.
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6/8/07 Addendum: Check out One life must be enough for further thoughts on this topic.

My First Car Accident (4th 1st)

[Stephanie over at Cool People I Know (whom I found via Jen Lemen) has tagged her readers to jump in on her meme and provide a list of five firsts. This is my third first. Read the others here.]

I'm sitting in a line of traffic about 10 cars long, backed up at a busy intersection. To my left, and across the oncoming lane of traffic, is the parking lot of a bar/pizza joint. I see a car start to back out of the parking lot. He backs across the oncoming lane of traffic and right into my front driver's side.

We both pull into the parking lot and get out of our cars. The other driver, a guy in his early 20's, speaks the first words between us: "Didn't you see me?"

I want to say: "Yes, I saw you as you backed into oncoming traffic and then into my car. Yes. I saw you, dude."

But in the end, I just say: "Didn't you see me?"

At first he seems stunned to realize that the accident is his fault, but then quickly adopts a "my bad" attitude and apologizes several times. We exchange insurance information.

While we sit there and wait for the police, whom I called after realizing that he smelled strongly of beer, he tries to bond with me. "Hey, I see the sticker in your window for that local public radio station. I listen to them to!"

Then he tries to make me feel bad for him because now he'll be late for the gig his band is playing at a house party tonight. I tell him that I'll be late for friends who were going to stop by my place. I also explain that if he's drunk, I don't want him to hurt anyone or himself. He says, "I told you. I had one beer. That's all."

I want to keep him in a good mood so he'll stick around. (I'm actually surprised he hasn't gotten belligerent or just taken off.) I say, "Tell you what. If the cops tell me you're not drunk, I will apologize to you."

"Okay," he says. "But I think you're gonna owe me an apology."

Forty minutes later a State Trooper is handcuffing him and arresting him for DUI.

Dude.

My First Trip to NYC (3rd 1st)

[Stephanie over at Cool People I Know (whom I found via Jen Lemen) has tagged her readers to jump in on her meme and provide a list of five firsts. This is my third first. Read the others here.]

The first time I visited New York City, I forgot about the Statue of Liberty.

A carfull of friends decided to drive from our beach house in Ocean City, NJ to NYC. We were there as part of a summer program of learning, fellowship, and discipleship. A bunch of college students from different schools, learning to live, play, work, cook, eat, pray, worship, and study together. It was like MTV's Real World for Christians: less hot tub debauchery and more Bible study.

Saturdays were our free time, so five of us piled into one car and made the 2.5 hour car trip to the city that never sleeps.

I don't remember what I expected to see or do in New York. I don't think I had many preconceived notions. At this point in my life, I hadn't traveled much and had never lived in a large city. I was just excited about the idea of New York.

As we approached the city and drove across a bridge, I looked across the backseat and out the driver's side window. There, in the distance, rising up out of the water, small but unmistakable, was the Statue of Liberty.

"Look!" I cried. "It's the Statue of Liberty!"

From the joy and awe in my voice, you would have thought I'd been waiting my whole life to see this landmark, as if I were an avid tourist, or a hungry immigrant.

The sheer surprise and happiness of seeing the Statue of Liberty caught me off-guard. It's not that I'd been looking forward to seeing it. It's that I had completely forgotten about its existence.

Lady Liberty is practically synonymous with the Big Apple. Yet I hadn't included it in my mental checklist of things to see while in New York. But there it was. Big -- and real -- as life. Here was this famous icon and I was seeing it in person, with my own eyes.

At that moment I felt like I was living life for once, rather than life living me. I can't explain how, but seeing the statue reminded me that the world is full of possibilities, even when we don't see them coming.

I thought of this story last weekend while I was in New York City for the ASJA writer's conference. I looked out of my hotel window on the 34th Floor and saw a large, silver gargoyle two buildings over.

As I was walking back to my hotel one day, I saw the building with the gargoyles on it and noticed how shiny it was. Suddenly I heard little orphan Annie proclaiming, "You'll stay up till this dump shines like the top of the Chrysler building." It was the Chrysler Building I'd seen from my window! I had the same feeling of recognition that I'd had 11 years earlier when I "discovered" the Statue of Liberty.

I'm looking for obvious monuments. The things in my life that are always there, whether I see them or not. The signposts that reassure me that whether I remember them or not, they stand strong and solid, ready to delight me.