“I had a farm in Africa…” Wait! This is not that, but I do belong to a book group in England. I joined in 2006 after an out of hand rejection to my inquiry about membership in a certain local reader’s group. Belonging to the group in England has been a great thing, and in a few weeks I’ll be traveling there to meet up with several of the members as we gather for a few days in Barnard Castle, a small town near Durham. This will be our last real get together as a group. The energies have shifted and participation is ever so slowly dying on the vine. Parts of the trip won’t be easy – the saying of goodbyes, my fervent wishing that the laughter and conversation could last forever in the face of all obstacles. It is painful in the way of visiting a seriously ill person; the reality is that the fresh ideas and inquisitive spirit of the group are squelched in the shadow of those behemoths of immediacy, Facebook and Twitter. It’s been a spectacular run for an online discussion group, ten years now for the founding members, and there are many lives enriched and changed by dusting up against thoughts about reading and cinema, explorations of The Apprentice and the schlock of B-horror, all for the most part peacefully. There just isn’t a downside to this, other than its sputtering out.
Getting ready to travel lifts me into that state of pleasurable anticipation where thinking about the whole experience comes to the forefront and the mundane gets pushed aside to make way for excitement and wonder. The others in the group are far and away better read than I am; not for one second has this put me off chasing after them in an intellectual sense. I am the pesky American, the one asking questions, drinking it in, feeling excited about the newness of all the different directions to discover in reading and experience. In a sense I’ve been birthed again as a reader and thinker through membership in such a diverse and interesting group.
And yet on a long walk tonight, I thought not only about what a fortunate circumstance it is to travel, but what a happy thing it is to come home. The desk at my new job affords me a window onto the lovely city park here where Abraham Lincoln once debated. There’s a beauty and simplicity about my chosen home town that can make my heart flutter from thousands of miles away. It’s a good place to live, to dwell in what some days feels like an international station for connection with people who are down the street, across town, even across the continent and ocean. Not to mention the one most dear to me who sleeps down the hall and who is like me in his ability to make and keep close ties.
My son is getting to know teens from other places, and I’m amazed at how varied and strong these relationships can be. Last December, one of his closest friends visited here for a week. As I drove the boys home from the airport, somewhere between St Louis and Hannibal I learned for the first time that the boy’s father is prominent within NBC. In all of my exchanges with his mother it hadn’t come up because it wasn’t important. What could have been an awkward chasm of class division never opened, thanks to the graciousness of the boy’s family and my son and his friend. I was pleased to show the young man a Sinclair station with its ceramic dinosaur décor, wild turkeys flocking in a snowy Missouri field, and the lights of Kansas City as we drove in to spend a couple of days celebrating the New Year. My son looks forward to visiting his friend at some point when they can ride the subway and explore city life.
As the big world gets smaller and more navigable, I think more and more about Martin Buber’s philosophy of being open to each experience, each person, as an I-Thou relationship. When I’m available to the complex, indescribable melding that is the chance lying within almost every encounter, I’m open to the Eternal Thou. This is not pie in the sky, nor is it a dreamy state of willful ignorance to problems or conundrums such as class division and out of hand rejection. Rather it is at the heart of solutions small and ultimately larger. It’s the way of reaching out and then returning home to live more fully. I’d like to think that Martin Buber would never acknowledge any notion of mobility as simply “up” or “down.” Truly there is no such thing. There is really only out and back. Buber wrote, “One who truly meets the world goes out also to God.” Out into the world, back into place.
9 o’clock somewhere