29 Jul Poetry of Home
I’ve written much about life on the move, but I love to write about home. Perhaps because writing about home feels as good for the soul as being home feels for the body and mind — a respite from going.
So then, poetry is solace from the stories of striving.
Home — a four-letter word that, when written on a page, bears the appearance of a home: cozy and rolling and with a chimney on the edge.
The fun of living on the move has been rebuilding my habitat like a bird that hops from tree to tree, easing into new canopies and twigs.
Home is where I rest. And no matter how many times the location’s changed, my home has always imparted certain feelings.
I hope they’re feelings of calm, color, character and warmth. My home makes me happy, and that is all that matters.
I’ve been reading The Art of Travel by Alain de Botton, one of my favorite living human beings. In the book he explores the life of poet William Wordsworth, an Englishman born in 1770 in the small country town of Cockermouth.
Wordsworth lived during the Industrial Revolution, a time of mass urbanization where human beings left the countryside for job opportunities in the cities.
“In the year 1700,” writes de Botton, “17 percent of the population of England and Wales lived in cities and towns. By 1850, 50 percent did, and by 1900, 75 percent.”
Are we meant for the cities? The pace of modern life? Who knows; but this is where we find ourselves — urban landscapes and endless digital escapes, coexisting beneath the ancient blue sky.
In the heart of Oakland, we build a nest.
The backyard is a sanctuary
Where I can be me,
Chill beneath the trees and lolling clouds.
The dog relaxes too
Plays with leaves and
Chases shadows on the wall.
Below there’s a creek;
Across the creek is a barbed wire fence
On the other side, graffiti
A ghost
Cartoons.
Listening to tunes
I lay back on my mat
And watch the dancing branches.
I explored in Japan
The beauty of less
Where empty space holds energy
An ability to move freely
Breathe and unwind, time
On the floor.
There doesn’t need to be more.
Slow down, look around while
Nesting in the sky.
Through the windows all is
Green
Squirrels dash across the deck
Raccoons hide in treetops
Hummingbirds float on the wind.
“Almost every day,” writes de Botton about Wordsworth, “he went on a long walk in the mountains or along the lakeshore . . . The poet proposed that nature — which he took to comprise, among other elements, birds, streams, daffodils and sheep — was an indispensable corrective to the psychological damage inflicted by life in the city.”
If we can’t leave for the country, we may tend the garden of our soul; our home an expression of our innermost being — the books that line our shelves, the artwork on the walls and the colors of the furniture.
Let home bring you peace. It’s all in the details. Dark brown wood and light green tones highlight the taste of my girlfriend and me, the honeyed light of lampshades.
I smile at the dining space. Japanese tatami mats that smell like mint and fresh hay; a low wooden table, vibrant cushions and a hanging amber colored lantern.
My girlfriend brought home from a flea market a beautiful wheat and deep-sea-blue colored tapestry that hangs by the entrance.
It takes time for a home to feel lived in. But it’s coming together. It feels good. You can’t buy that feeling. It develops as things find their way amongst the space. Books may leave the bookcase and nestle on a side table, beside the bed, or lie open on the couch.
Spiderwebs come and go and come again; at least I know I tried. I’m a clean guy. But my home doesn’t have to be perfect. There are spiders here — particularly one in the bathroom who hides in the windowsill. I don’t mind it.
In fact, I like it. Every day, I see him, her, whatever, and wonder what it’s up to. When I come close, it retreats into its dwelling, inaccessible to me. There’s nothing to do but accept it. I’ve named the spider Rasputin.
Spiders and these other creatures are harmless animals of this strange rock, held in complete nothingness. They are living beings — the spiders and the squirrels and the raccoons and the dogs.
And I marvel at it all.
I’m at my desk.
This morning it rained, the first I’ve experienced here. A city in the rain is one of my favorite smells. I light a couple of candles. The rain dies down. Coffee on the boiler. The sun falls through the windows as I type these words.
The coffee’s hot and sits on my desk in a green earthen mug, made by a friend. The sky’s now blue and shining; streaks of light cascade upon my desk; I’m in a good place. I enjoy starting the day early like this.
Not so I can get more done, but so I don’t feel rushed. The dog rests, curled up in the coolness of the bathroom. My girlfriend’s getting work started in her office. It’s a beautiful life.
“Looking back on Wordsworth’s early poems,” writes de Botton, “the poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge would assert that their genius had been to ‘give the charm of novelty to things of every day, and to excite a feeling analogous to the supernatural, by awakening the mind’s attention from the lethargy of custom, and directing it to the loveliness and wonders of the world before us.’”
How is it that the sky’s so blue when outside of our solar system we hover in a sea of black? People go about their business. Coffee shops open like the one I pass on my bike ride to the gym.
I like to be amid activity. Yesterday I stopped early by the lake, Lake Merritt, pulled over and took a picture as the sun came up. A rosy pink sky. Italian lights along the walkway, orange still. Geese waking up.
Along the edge of the lake are apartment buildings that rise into the hills, variegated in pastel colors and eggshell hues of white. Metal fire escapes zigzag to the rooftops.
From the opposite side of the lake, the homes seem like toys; this lends a playful atmosphere to the lake, partially due to its size and the different activities that take place there. Rowers slice through the water in the early morning; sailboats sail in the afternoons.
Last weekend I saw a boat being steered by a person standing in the back, their stance sturdy like a Venetian gondolier, using a long wooden oar; inside the boat a passenger had erected what looked like an umbrella you’d find in a mai-tai or piña colada.
The sight of the boat transported me somewhere else. Here in my new home, despite being in my native country and state, I realized there will be sights that seem both familiar and unfamiliar, a convergence of the old and the new.
Lake Merritt feels like the epicenter of town. I pass it every day. There are people running and walking early in the morning, but on the weekends if the sun is out, the grassy hills that roll beside the lake are bustling with picnickers and friends meeting up.
On a Friday evening, after tossing a stick with the dog, I stumble upon a DJ setup for a dance party at the lakefront pergola, where Romanesque arches compose the lake in a beautiful frame.
It’s 6 pm. Kids do wheelies on their bikes; booths sell drinks and snacks, and people dance. I make a point of interacting with life, so I dance too. An elderly woman gives the dog some treats.
I buy a beer and chat with the vendors, chill dudes.
On Saturday mornings, there’s a farmer’s market nearby. They sell flowers and produce and booths with local products. It feels like a community. I go for the best cookies I’ve ever had, a deep purple ube one being my favorite. A band plays wind instruments. It’s a vibe.
But still, Oakland has this sort of grittiness; an untameable, wacky charm. A loveliness, yet it can be sad, too. There’s glass in the streets and a lot of trash, which I sometimes see people dropping from their car windows. I don’t get that. It makes me mad. But they’re just people. They don’t know any better. That’s life.
That’s Oakland. A dark and storied and complex past, a character I’m just starting to know. It’s real, and I like it.
Ubiquitous graffiti adds color to most buildings, art that makes the concrete speak. Nearby in my neighborhood there’s a mural of Goku from Dragon Ball-Z, an anime series that reminds me of my childhood and Japan, a connection to where I’ve been.
Downtown are historic buildings like the Fox Theater and Grand Lake Theatre, classically beautiful, neon lights inspiring the evening sky; by day, they’re just nice to drive by.
I enjoy seeing churches. Old ones. There are a couple nearby. Tall, dark spires draw the eye, stark against the softness of dawn. There’s something somber about it.
I guess there’s something somber about life. But we do what we can to instill it with light, finding joy where we can, peace where we rest, and connection with others just doing our best.
No Comments