There's No Place Like Home

Research has demonstrated that scents can evoke strong memories and emotions; our sense of smell may be our most powerful sense. But I would like to suggest that our sense of place -- being centered and firmly attached to the ground beneath our feet-- is also powerful.  I am not talking about a pleasant nostalgia for somewhere you have been, but rather a kind of geographic memory that is deeply embedded within. 

For me New York City is that place. My sense of geographic connection is strongest there. It is where my pulse -- and the pace at which I walk the streets-- seems to be synchronized with the place itself.  When I first realized this about myself I thought I was strange.  But listening to a podcast of WNYC's Radiolab, I learned that what I was feeling can be explained scientifically. In "It's Alive," the hosts of Radiolab explored what makes cities unique, including the physics and mathematical formulas of individual cities.  Now I have come to understand that my feeling displaced in Atlanta is not strange.  It's just that I am a stranger here.

Recently, I was sharing my observations about geographic memory with a friend, explaining that while living in Atlanta for more than a decade I have maintained my desire to go home.  He described his life here as "living in the place of paradox." He enjoys teaching at a Progressive school in a Conservative county in a Red State, where life requires real work. I imagine it must sometimes feel like pushing a boulder uphill.  This is an interesting contrast to living in the place of comfort, where if nothing needs fixing, it is easy to become accustomed to coasting downhill.

Creativity stems from discomfort and discontent, whereas complacency stems from comfort. For this reason alone, I don't regret living in the place of paradox. Had I not lived here I might never have enjoyed the transformative experiences of sitting at the potter’s wheel, writing a book and driving a minivan.  I have worked side by side with artists and made loyal friends at Camp Ramah Darom; expanded my world view and forged an identity as a parent at High Meadows School; and enjoyed the privilege of serving Jewish communities in smaller cities in Alabama and Georgia.  Living far from the center of the Jewish world has forced me to strive as a rabbi, to work earnestly at imparting Jewish wisdom to my students. Moreover, I have met unaccountably brave and unbelievably kind people in the south.  They have enriched my life in ways that I cannot begin to describe in this essay.

Yet, after more than a decade in Paradox, I continue to yearn for the comfort of Home. My own children, even the two who were born in NYC, get annoyed with me when I say this aloud, and I am not unsympathetic to their discomfort with my discomfort in Paradox.  After all, this is the only home that they remember. They are unaware that we are strangers living in a strange land; that we came for a sojourn and became more rooted to this place than I had originally intended. My family resides here-- through employment and mortgage loans it has become home-- but I am still searching for the shoes that will transport me from the place of paradox to the land where my feet are most grounded.

I beg your pardon; I never promised you an herb garden

Until quite recently I believed that I had a black thumb.  I have killed the hardiest plants, including cacti, which are purported to be indestructible.  When I moved here, only one houseplant had survived my years in a NYC apartment.  I left it behind with the Super's wife, hoping it would have a better life with her.  But everything changed for me last week, when I noticed that something STRANGE was happening in the pot of my Jerusalem Cherry Tree.  

As an aside, I feel compelled to mention that I received this particular plant as a gift from someone who did not know about my tendency to hasten death in houseplants.  During the last 18 months, this beautiful plant had lost its bright orange berries and more than half of its leaves, but it refused to die.  In fact, it grew steadily until even I realized that it required a transplant to a larger pot.  Within a week of its transfer, the plant began budding and small, white flowers appeared among the leaves.  I took notice, but maintained a strong skepticism about its survival following such a radical procedure at the hands of an incompetent practitioner.  

Last week, my negative self-talk was drowned out once and for all when I walked by the plant and noticed thin green shoots, which looked like tiny blades of grass, sprouting up around the perimeter of the pot.   "What on earth?" I muttered aloud.   Turns out I should have asked "what in earth?" instead.  You see, my children go to an environmentally savvy school, where they can be Junior Master Gardeners and other students' parents can adopt-a-spot and tend to the flower beds on campus.  Last April, in celebration of Earth Day, they planted seeds in small, decorated pots and brought them home.  Assuming that I would fail to nurture the tiny seeds into actual plant life, I just left the pots in the garage.  Then 9 months later, when I needed additional soil to transplant the Jerusalem Cherry Tree, I saw little point in purchasing a new bag.  I had already calculated the likelihood of this plant's death at 99.9%.  In an effort to reduce, reuse and recycle, I tossed the soil from the Earth Day pots into the larger pot, watered the plant and placed it near a window where I could ignore it for a while.

Apparently, herb seeds can survive many months of abandonment in a garage.  Now I have an herb garden growing alongside my flowering Jerusalem Cherry Tree in my powder room, and I am beginning to reconsider my capabilities as a cultivator of life.  Spring really is a time of growth -- all kinds of growth.