Greensboro

Bring in ‘da peace, bring in ‘da monks

The Walk for Peace came to my corner of the world yesterday.

I saw a small parade of superheroes yesterday. Instead of capes, they wore simple, handmade robes in earthy colors – no flashy costumes. And they were not accompanied by a pounding soundtrack. No, these were the minimalist Avengers but make no mistake – their superpowers are enormous. Yes, I’m talking about the Buddhist monks who are participating in the Walk for Peace – a 120-day, 2,300-mile journey. These monks are walking from Texas to Washington, D.C. – talk about getting your steps in – to promote mindfulness, compassion and peace – something akin to hidden treasure these days.

The monks passed through the Piedmont Triad – where I live – and were greeted like the rock stars they are. 10,000 people gathered at a stadium in High Point, NC to welcome them on a frigid morning. Hundreds of other folks lined the route as they made their way to Greensboro. The turnout to support the monks was amazing and even more remarkable was that none of those thousands of people behaved badly – at least from my vantage point.

My bestie Carla lives in Jamestown and has been following the monks on social media for weeks – they began their journey in Fort Worth, TX on October 26th. I knew she was planning on seeing them and my dear wife and I decided to join her. It was a great decision because Carla had mapped out the strategy to secure the best viewing point like it was the invasion of Normandy. In her own words, she was “obsessively” following (stalking) their route. She even made a test run earlier in the day to scope out the elementary school where we planned to park and she texted me their progress on the hour. I could almost hear the theme from Mission Impossible in the background.

The Monk Squad – Andrew, Carla, Arlene, me, and Joy

We convened at Carla’s house with her husband and mom and waited until it was time to depart. Finally, Captain Carla gave the greenlight, and we dispersed with the efficiency of a SWAT team. We were on a mission – not unlike the monks. I think we all knew that this is what we desperately needed in the midst of the chaos choking our country every day.

There were already hundreds of folks lining the route when we reached the school, but we had no problem parking. My little KIA Soul is the unofficial vehicle of Radical Left Scum and is adorned with bumper stickers that leave no doubt as to my politics. When I got out of my car, I saw a young mother kneeling to zip up her daughter’s coat – they had parked directly behind me. When we passed them, she looked up and smiled at me and said, “I love your bumper stickers.” I returned a big fat smile, patted her on the arm, and told her she was good people. Her husband was wrangling their other child and said, “No, you’re good people.” And that was just a joyous appetizer of things to come.

Yesterday was a blessing in all manner of ways.

We staked out our spots on the sidewalk with a bunch of strangers who felt like friends. Everyone was buzzing with excitement and anticipation. A woman near us was tracking the monks on her phone and kept updating us. “They should be here in about 20 minutes,” she called out. Our tribe was downright giddy, and Carla and I shared a spontaneous bear hug. We are both unabashedly emotional (understatement) and we were just so happy to be there. And then the monks passed right by us – more like whizzed – those monks are quick on their feet. I was shocked that we were so close to them – you could have easily touched them – but that is strictly prohibited. One of the monks offered us a short blessing as he passed by. I was so overwhelmed, I can’t recall exactly what he said. What I do remember is the sound – the sacred sound of silence. You could hear a pin drop. The only sound was the rhythmic treading of the monks’ steps on the asphalt. It sounded like prayer to me.

Look at all the happy people.

And just like that, they were gone. No one rushed off – I think folks simply wanted to linger in the gentle haze of the peace we had just born witness to. And a word I had not thought of in a long time popped into my head – unity. I felt united with all those people on the sidewalk. It was a bit like staring directly into the sun – it was almost too much to take in and I had to close my eyes for a moment.

Sometimes peace finds you in a parking lot.

When we got back to our car, my wife found two little flowers stuck in the door handle of the driver’s side. They looked like the simple flowers that the monks carry. I bet they came from the little family that liked my stickers. They were a bit dilapidated from the cold, but still so bright and cheerful – downright resilient. Folks, sometimes the metaphors write themselves. And that’s how a humble band of monks lifted a weary community on their slight shoulders for a few glorious hours on a cold day in January.

And that is the Marvel Universe I long to dwell in.

May it be so.

May you and all beings be well, happy and at peace.

This is a blessing that the monks repeat often on their journey.

I’m hoping these last a very long time.

Searching for my true home

A ranch on a gravel road in Clinton, N.Y.

I dreamed of New York last night. I was in Ithaca, where I first went to college, and the first place I lived on my own. In my dream, Andrew and I were living there. I was in grad school. Andrew found a great job. It was summer. The sun was shining, but the air was cool. All I can remember from the dream was the downtown square with its cobblestone streets and lots of sunlight. I woke up at 7:40 a.m., surprised to find myself in our apartment. The dream felt so real. I should have been in Ithaca.

What is home? Is it a place or a state of mind? I’ve been in North Carolina for almost 11 years now, and it still doesn’t feel like home. But this is where my community is, my friends who have become family. This is where friends have laid flowers at my doorstep or brought me homemade chicken soup when I was sick.

The day after I found out I miscarried, two of my dearest friends came by just to be with me. I was on the couch wrapped in a blanket and wearing black stretch pants and a hooded sweatshirt. It was February. I hadn’t showered all day. My eyes were still puffy from crying; they felt scratchy. It was a no contacts kind of day.

Miriam brought me Chinese, pork lo mein. My favorite. She always tries to feed me when I’m depressed. She knows how I reject food when I’m grieving. She sat on the couch next to me and just listened. I don’t remember what she said, but I know that she made me feel better. She knows me in a way that not many do. She sees me straight down to my core. That’s home.

My best friend Addy arrived at my door with a tiny square box tied with a bow and containing truffles. She also brought Kleenex, the rectangular size, with blue and white splatters like an abstract painting. It reminded me of my grandma’s house; she always had the larger, rectangular Kleenex boxes. Addison sat with me for hours. She let me cry. She held my hand. Somehow, she managed to make me laugh.We binged on “Barefoot Contessa” episodes and talked about how Ina needs to be friends with us and invite us over for dinner every night. We took a selfie and sent it to my mom in California to show her I was OK. I was in good hands. That’s home right?

The best of friends will sit with you and your grief and see you through your darkest moments.

Maybe home isn’t a place. Maybe home is people, your village, the ones who lift you up in your darkest moments.

But in New York , when I was there last week, it felt like home to me. I miss it. I miss the feeling I had when I was there. It felt familiar. Being with my sister. Sipping white wine from stemless glasses. Giggling together, crying together. Gina is home.

Every day, I drove from my sister’s house in Albany to the Omega Institute outside of Rhinebeck, N.Y. where I was participating in a week-long writing retreat. I never minded the hour and 15 minute drive. It was peaceful. It gave me time to ease into the morning and space to decompress and digest the day on the way home. It gave me time to ponder and time to observe this beautiful land around me. Every day I crossed the Hudson River twice; it was my favorite part of the ride. The Hudson is breathtaking. It’s wider than most rivers I’ve seen and, damn, the light it’s just magical there. Most of my drive consisted of two-lane rural roads that careened through the countryside of fields and ice cream stands and rivers and golden sunlight and wildflowers and mountains and open roads.

On those drives, I felt a longing that I could not explain. It felt like home to me, even though I didn’t live there. Often during that week, I would catch my throat tightening or my eyes welling up with tears as I drove, taking in the landscape and all its beauty. At first I thought it was a side effect from all the intensive, personal writing I did during the day at my retreat. But this was more like a deep sadness, and I realize now, looking back, that what I was feeling was homesick.

One evening, I got to watch the sun set on my drive home. As I turned off the Taconic Parkway and headed north, the sky revealed a beautiful sunset of orange and pink dotted with clouds in various shades of blue. The Catskills looked like giant blue shadows along the horizon. Their presence was a permanent fixture, grounded and unmovable. Now I understand why so many painters have fallen in love with the Hudson Valley. Its beauty made me weep. Why do I feel such a deep connection to this place?

Somewhere along Route 9 in New York. (Photo by Carla Kucinski)

I’ve been sad since I’ve been back from New York. Tuesday night at the dinner table, I burst into tears. “I miss my sister,” I told Andrew. I choked on each word as it tried to leave my throat. We had just come from looking at a house to buy. We’ve been unsuccessfully house-hunting since July. That night we toured a split-level with green shutters, tan vinyl siding, white columns holding up the front porch. It’s in a great neighborhood — actually, one of the neighborhoods we want to live in. It’s woodsy, quiet.

As I walked to the front door of the house, I saw a dad teaching his son to ride a bike. Images like that still have the power to break me. Inside, the house was beautiful. But way too much house for just the two of us and our dog. It hit me that night as I cried over my ratatouille that we don’t know what the future holds. Even looking for a house makes me sad. As we walk through each new home, I count bedrooms, I imagine where the nursery will be, if the yard is big enough for a child, if it’s in a good school district. And then I think: “What if there’s no baby in the picture?”

Sometimes I feel like I’ll never be pregnant again. The concept feels so out of reach. It feels impossible, deep down in my gut. This feeling has replaced the hope I’ve been carrying all these months. I don’t know where it went. It just slipped away.

“Your true home is in the here and now,” says Thich Nhat Hanh, a Buddist teacher. “Your true home is not an abstract idea; it is something you can touch and live in every moment.” He says home is in your body, in your mind, in your present moment. But what if in the present moment all you’re feeling is anxiety and fear and questioning everything? Then what?

Greensboro was supposed to be a temporary stop. I thought I’d be here for three or five years. But then I bought a house, got married and got divorced all in that order. This was 2010. I wanted to leave North Carolina and go anywhere, live anywhere but here. I wanted to run from the present and start a new life. I could have left then, but my heart already endured so much heartbreak and change that the idea of picking up my life and starting over scared me. I didn’t want to say goodbye to my friends; that would have been another loss too difficult to bear. They had become family. Without them, I wouldn’t have survived my divorce.

And then, Andrew came into my life. I fell in love. He reopened my closed heart and showed me how to trust again. He gave me hope. That was 2011. And now it’s almost 2017, and I still feel like I’m straddling a line – one foot in North Carolina and one foot out.

“Don’t think about leaving,” I told myself the morning I was flying back to Greensboro. I usually start crying much sooner before I get to the airport, like in the shower or while putting on my mascara, my lashes damp with tears. Saying goodbye to any of my sisters is never easy. Last time I left, I cried so much that the TSA agent came up to me in line to make sure I was OK.

Gina and I are partners in crime. The magpies, my dad called us. We’re two years apart. She’s the middle child; I’m the baby. As kids she gave me piggy back rides around the house. I was afraid of jumping onto her back for fear she wouldn’t catch me. (I have control issues.) She’d sit on the edge of the bed and let me crawl onto her back, and at the end of the ride, she’d return me to my bed as promised and let me roll off her back like I was falling backwards into a lake. She’s always looking out for me, even though we’re both adults now. I still need looking after.

Last night I came across an old journal entry from 2006. As I read my own words, I could feel my sadness and desperation. I was lost. “What’s my purpose? What am I supposed to be doing? Why am I here?” I laughed as I read the questions aloud. Ten years later, the questions haven’t changed. Will I always be searching? What is this void that I continue to carry and can’t seem to fill? Has this feeling always been there? Maybe the answers are waiting for me in New York.

Gina and me toasting to my last night in New York. The picture is blurry because we were having so much fun.