I stood in the middle of an urban forest in the midst of Seattle, and I could hear woodpeckers and humming birds and probably a dozen others. There was a distant siren, as well, moving farther away, but so out of place in the dense green of the forest, it almost seemed as though this lush kingdom we’d stepped inside was the real world, its amazon vividness in stark relief against the monotonous humdrum of far away traffic.
Most of the time, we make friends and maintain friendships based on what we have in common, whether that was our middle school crushes, or our college term papers, or our children’s elementary school. These are important friendships. But some of the time, we make friends despite what we don’t have in common. With one of my best friends, we’ve always been at different crossroads. As I was struggling through the first years of parenthood, she was figuring out her early twenties. As I sent a child to kindergarten, she spent 6 weeks exploring Europe. We are, in many ways, in very different places. What we have in common is a love of literature and grammar, faith in a good proverb and a good rosé, an appreciation of a well executed high tea, and each other.
On that foundation, we’ve seen each other through some dismal lows and some extraordinary highs. We’ve gotten drunk on champagne and whiled away an afternoon over mugs of hot, strong brewed tea. Words and no words.
When I’m at home, quiet is nearly impossible. “Look, I’m dancing like popcorn,” my daughter says as she waits by the microwave, Once Upon A Time on in the living room, while my other daughter bounces on an exercise ball while watching Curious George videos on her computer. “Mama, is my shirt in the dryer?” “Mama, come see! I organized your jewelry!” “Mama, have you seen Buddy?” “Hon, did you schedule afterschool care yet? We need Thursday, too.”
Coming home from a quick 48 hours away, even having Skyped with my family mid-way through, remembering I had parked in far-away row Y3, Economy West was an added insult to the 20 minute runway delay in Seattle. It had been time to get away, and now it was time to get home. I chose the toll road to expedite the process and ended up behind a state trooper, all of us going exactly 75 mph for 30 miles. As soon as I got home, hugs distributed, we all talked at once. Eva had had soccer and written a short story. Samantha had a history project to discuss and dinner was ready.
This is home. It’s loud. There’s always something we’ve forgotten to do, and there’s always something that didn’t make it on the grocery list. There is never a hairbrush to be found, and socks never match. It’s controlled chaos when we’re lucky. Bedlam in a bottle. It’s what I hurry back to, even while I’ve counted down the hours to slip away.
But 1000 miles away from home, it’s nice to know that there is a forest in the middle of the city, where I’ve stood with one of my best friends, amid the moss and the ferns and the towering cedars, and just listened to the woodpeckers and hummingbirds.
