After a long night of cramped uncomfortability, I got into Boston at about 5:30am Eastern Time this morning.
And, just briefly, while I'm on the subject, let me say again just how surreal flying is: it's pretty darn surreal, people. I mean, there you are, in this long metal tube full of people sitting uncomfortably close to each other, and you're also (get this) flying through the air.
Yeah. Crazy.
You can see the world right there out the window--it exists--but it's impossibly far away. You spend hours in this encased little universe that's completely separate from everything and everyone not inside the airplane. You are more detatched and more alone in a plane full of people than you are, I believe, at most other times in life.
And also, your legs start to feel kind of funny after awhile.
But I still love takeoffs. And also landings (as long as they're relatively turbulence-free). And also seeing the lights of cities like Chicago and Detroit spread out miles below me like some kind of enormous, glowing lichen. (Cathy, I mentally waved at you as I passed over. Hope you were mentally waving back! At 3 o'clock in the morning!)
Anyway...
I got back to Boston and took the T back to my building, where I lugged my 50lb suitcase back up the three flights of stairs to my apartment. And then I slept until about 2:30 in the afternoon. And went grocery shopping. And to the library. And decided to blog about all the mundanities of my existence.
But mainly I've been thinking about what it is to come home, and whether I just came away from home or whether I just came to home, or whether it's a little bit of both and neither, really. All at the same time.
5 comments:
I was awake. Maybe the wave helped me somehow--last night was short on sleep.
I've decided that home is sort of mythical both in the power of the word and the expectations that surround it. Most of the time, I wouldn't call Chicago home yet. It still doesn't have that "home" feeling. But there were areas on my mission where I lived for six months or less that were home. And as Ed pointed out on Christmas, this is the first place we've spent two consecutive Christmases in our short 4 1/2 years of married life. Chicago also certainly felt like home (a place of refuge) when returning from the vacation from hell in early November.
Maybe my definition of home is based on relationships, which does make sense. We are such transient people that it probably would be foolish to fasten it solely to a physical place.
So maybe I'm admitting that Chicago still doesn't hold deep friendships, which for me are a necessary supplement to family relationships. And that's why it still doesn't feel like home.
Hey, if our hearts can be in more than one place, why not our homes?
Glad you're back safe and sound. Even if I miss you. And your books. ;)
When I was commuting to SoCal, often driving for 10 hours, but sometimes flying, I often thought of the plane as a magical transporter, which I would step into in SLC and step out of two hours later in Orange County. It seemed almost surreal, being used to it taking so long to drive there, that I could actually step into this long metal tube and be transported the same distance in 1/5th the time.
Bethy, just commenting to say I'm glad you got back (home) safely, with less turbulence this time, Mom tells me. And I also wanted to tell you that my word verification was "cwikiqg" which looks a lot like "cowinkidink" at first glance.
And if you think you're alone in an airplane, think of those astronauts, eh? Imagine being in SPACE! THAT would be isolation, being so far from billions of people!
P.S. Wish you could've come to Yoga class with me this morning!
:0(
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