homesickness, or, the art of change
I had one of those rolling telephones on a string as a toy when I was a kid. Remember those? Look up Fisher Price’s “Chatter Phone” if you need a point of reference. Very vintage.
I have an early childhood memory seared in my mind of being awake one morning, and wheeling my smiling (in retrospect: creepy) Chatter Phone into my parents' bedroom to play with them. Upon entering, I found them both sound asleep. And for whatever reason, the feeling I experienced in that moment has stayed with me. This understanding that they were there, but they also weren’t there.
Over the course of my life, a similar feeling has washed over me from time to time, and without fail I’m always brought back to this bizarre image of that smiling, rolling telephone. This experience of being here, but also not here. A while back I labeled this feeling as “homesickness.” I think now I’d call it something more like “transition.”
I visited home this past week, and it couldn’t have been a lovelier trip. I was able to see much of my extended family, caught up with some old friends, had quality time with my immediate family, and got outside on several occasions to enjoy the best time of year in Minnesota.
One of the highlights for me was going on a couple bike rides with my brother, Ryan. I’ve ridden a bike a grand total of one time since living in New York City, and let me tell you—dodging traffic down a tiny bike lane on the Upper West Side is a very different experience from coasting through a Minnesota suburban neighborhood. This experience was magic on several accounts. Spending time with my brother will always and forever be some of the best time I could possibly spend. And then to spend that kind of time while immersed in an activity that evoked all the joys of my childhood experience? We raced down old hills, visited favorite hiding spots, and enjoyed an activity from our youth through our adult eyes.
Just a few nights prior to this experience, I was sitting in my New York City apartment with my roommates. We’ve lived in this apartment for five years, and we have yet to put any art on our living room walls. Meryn suggested we create a wall that pays homage to our home states—California, Texas, and Minnesota. I immediately laughed—“Sure, Minnesota is great, but I don’t feel that kind of attachment to it.”
I played out these words over and over as I felt the wind hitting my face on our neighborhood ride. I’ve always felt that I experience God in the wind, or at least some sort of larger Universal force. And in that moment I was hit with it again, hard—this strange image of the rolling telephone. This overwhelming sense of homesickness, this stirring of change, this understanding that of course I’m attached to this place, but I no longer belong here.
It’s a big period of transition for my family. Part of the reason I was home was to celebrate my Dad’s retirement. He’s the embodiment of a living legacy—he’s a local celebrity, an inspiring leader, and a hometown hero. While I think he’ll jump right back in to some sort of meaningful work, his formal retirement feels symbolic to me. It’s the end of an era for him. Something that has defined his very existence will no longer be true for him. Of course it will still inform who he is and what he’ll get up to next, but the in’s and out’s of his daily reality will change drastically.
Another reason we were home was to bury my Grandfather’s ashes. Grandpa Mark lived a long and incredible life and was very much at peace when his time was up. But his death has affected me more profoundly than I could have realized. It’s strange to gather as a family without the McCartan patriarch. It’s painful to know that my father no longer has a father. And it signals the beginning of the next chapter for our family—as one generation starts to go, we make room to shepherd in a new one. I imagine these family gatherings will start to look much different in the coming years.
That felt like the theme of this most recent trip. This understanding that the things that are so routined and familiar are going to start looking a lot different. The uneasiness that comes with having no mental picture of what that’s going to look like. The reality that these are the beautiful growing pains that will accompany these #adulting milestones.
Transition has always been an opportunity for me. It used to be crippling and borderline traumatic. I manage it much better now, but I still feel my body’s natural hesitance. It braces itself. It tries to keep one foot firmly planted in the old, comfortable world, while the other foot curiously inches towards what’s possible. So on this trip home, on the precipice of so much change for my family, in the aftermath of uttering that this familiar place doesn’t hold much meaning for me, I came to understand more deeply what this ancient experience of “homesickness” is for me.
To have this desperate desire to cling to what’s known, while secretly craving the sexiness of the unknown. To respect and uphold my roots and the values that have been instilled in me, while craving to break all the rules and create something new and not fear the repercussions. To honor traditions while questioning their validity. To love a life I had, yet wonder if there isn’t something more available to me. To be here, but also not here.
a view from my beloved Minnesota home