finding home

When I was 18 years old - on the verge of breaking out, running away, blossoming into a bigger me -- I saw a Kalamazoo, Michigan version of the Broadway musical Pippin.

It's the fictional story of the son of Emperor Charlemagne who seeks happiness in sex, war, politics, money and power. At one point he collapses and wakes up to find himself in the care of a simple, loving widow who lives with her young son on a farm. As he regains strength he takes to her day-to-day life of milking cows, repairing the roof, tilling the garden, and raising her son. But after a time he decides he needs to get back to a more pulsating, glamorous life and leaves her.

Toward the end of the play, the narrator offers Pippin the opportunity to disappear into a glorious ball of light to never return, the envy of all who see OR he can choose to return to one of the phases of his life. Pippin chooses to go back to the farm.

The narrator is furious. He calls out to all the theater workers to take away the music, the decor, even the costumes. In the end the man, woman and child are standing in their underpants on a bare stage beneath a dangling single light bulb while the narrator defies them to find happiness without the dazzle and decor of life.

For years I walked the bustling streets of Paris on my way to school or work, singing the titular character's theme song:
"Everything has its season; everything has its time...
Cats fit on the window sill, children fit in the snow,
Why is it I don't fit in anywhere I go?
Rivers belong where they can ramble,
eagles belong where they can fly.
I've got to be where my spirit can run free.
I've got to find my corner of the sky."

And for years I followed in Pippin's footsteps. I wrote for famous magazines that adorned coffee tables in France, the UK and the US. I interviewed leaders of opinion in the arts, politics, business. I was flown here and there in first class by organizations who were impressed by the magazine titles I wrote for and whom I assumed had no idea how very un-important I really was. When the AIDS epidemic started taking potshots at my friends I created a non-profit and brought unconventional programs into hospitals, sat with Ministers of Health from various countries to influence policy, offered support to dying people who suffered extraordinarily. Back in the US I surfed the dotcom wave and helped change legislation nationally to protect people with disabilities.

And then Tad Crandall asked me to step into his yard (but not too far).

He asked me to cuddle his cat, to help him weed his garden, to wander in the garden shop to find the next addition to his yard. To sit and watch TV. He asked me to slow down, to stop fighting. I railed against his world. I thought it was pedestrian and narrow-minded, stifling and claustrophobic. But he never once criticized mine. Not once. He just stood by the gate and held it open for me with a generous smile.

On the other hand Tad was adamant we mustn't live together right away. He knew that too much of one person in his personal sphere made him irritable and unpleasant. He insisted we spend time apart on a regular basis. This allowed me to keep a foot in my turn-of-the-century San Francisco cottage and another in his sweet Santa Cruz trailer.

Despite all my ambivalence, I woke up every day and chose Tad. As months and years went by I continued to choose Tad. I chose Tad because no matter what issues I had with his sleepy, predictable day-to-day pace I saw that what flowed between us was simple, humble love.
No one had ever offered it to me this purely.

A few days ago a lovely friend visited me from San Francisco and I didn't know how to be with her. It was "one of those days" which I've discovered come and go where I can't seem to stay focused on the living and my mind wanders off to the dead, to the past, to the pain of loss. Being in my body is cloying and I find myself saying and doing things thoughtlessly in order to make the pain stop.

We went for a delicious walk to visit Tad's and my vegetable plot where I suddenly became aware of how un-present I was. I apologized and suggested we ride back up to San Francisco together so she could beat the evening traffic and I could sleep in my own bed. I offered this not because I had anything there to do but simply because staying where I was felt so painful.

This was my second time in San Francisco since Tad's death and unlike the previous trip it was actually soothing for me to find myself in my own apartment, with my own furniture, my art, my books...all mirroring my story back to me. I met with friends and we caught up, had a good laugh and dinner in some trendy new hotspot surrounded by fashionable twenty-somethings.

I walked back to my place smiling, thinking Tad would completely support me if I moved back to San Francisco - which at that moment felt like home.

But during my short stay I got to see just how much my mind loves the stimulation of the City - in particular the possibilities hidden behind each thought:

As I walk to breakfast I see the tramway go by and my mind knows that it could take me to the international airport. The idea that I can easily access planes to take me to different parts of the world is stimulating. Getting to airports is complicated from Santa Cruz. For years I've always looked at big-ticket items in terms of how many plane tickets they are worth: a four thousand dollar used car = three and a half trips to Paris.

The waiter in my morning neighborhood restaurant is handsome and nicely built and slightly flirty. Not overtly so - just enough to transform our mundane interactions about eggs and bacon into something a little playful with just a hint of possibility - setting up what a friend of mine calls "mental rainchecks".

The same goes for the posters I see of museums, plays and films.

The truth is I almost never go to see them - except perhaps when friends are visiting from out of town. But the possibility I may go is immensely important to me somehow. Just outside my door something exciting is happening and if I want to -- and I don't really want to right now thank you very much but but just in case I might want to -- I could go outside and take it in.

I live in San Francisco the way most people live in Santa Cruz. I walk or bike to most places. I shop and dine within a few blocks of my house. I spend evenings in local eateries with friends or quietly at home watching a movie. On very rare occasions I hop on the trolley and adventure downtown.


The major difference between Pippin and me is that he chooses to go back to the woman and her son. He doesn't say, "I'll take the slow-paced farm but give the woman leukemia and let her die." Santa Cruz would be a lovely place to move with someone, well, someone like Tad. Without him it feels frightening, like the quiet cul-de-sac that it is.

The beauty of Buddhism is it reminds me to slow down my mind, to let in serenity. The beauty of Christianity is it encourages me to always follow the path of love, to eschew all the do's and don'ts and just come back to love.

The Christian legend suggests Jesus came back to life after his physical death. Though I don't believe this I do believe that people who loved him deeply saw him. They felt him.

Now that Tad is physically dead I yearn to locate him, to find where he is and make sure everything is alright.

If I stop and settle into deep Buddhist serenity Tad resurrects. He comes back to me with his healthy body and gorgeous smile. He glows with love, the same way I've seen holy men glow in some exotic monasteries. He is pure love. And all he does is encourage me and love me and assure me that love is all there is. No matter where I am.