Natalie Merchant has a song called Motherland. It is an odd lullaby that I can't quite figure out.
Maybe it's simply because the singer can't figure out her feelings about her motherland. At times she calls her motherland "this wasteland, this terrible place." She turns her back on it and steels herself to show no emotion about leaving. And then, in the next breath, she begs her motherland to lullaby her to sleep.
"Motherland, cradle me, close my eyes, lullaby me to sleep. Keep me safe, lie with me, stay beside me, don't go."
I have been listening to that song every time I get into my car. Over and over again. "Motherland, cradle me..."
It is not coincidence that this song has captured my attention. I have been spending a lot of time thinking about where my motherland is. Where is my home?
I like to think of myself as a nomad. A pirate. A lone cowboy. One who needs no home. Belongs nowhere and therefore roams everywhere.
I remember being a teenager and listening just as obsessively to the James Taylor song "Sweet Baby James." I envisioned myself as that lone cowboy with nothing but a rolled up blanket on my saddle and someway to make coffee. At times it seemed real to me; that it would actually happen. As if I was having a glimpse into my future.
Maybe I am that lone cowboy now. Maybe not quite yet. I do have some freedom in being able to choose where I want to roam these days. But as with everything else in life, there is a cost. My cost is feeling that empty space where most people have a rich album of their homeland.
I grew up in Manhattan until I was ten. I and my three siblings spent almost every day of our lives in Central Park, which was only four blocks away. I loved it. And I am glad we moved away from that "wasteland, that terrible place." That place where we were trained to constantly be on guard for our safety. That polluted stink hole. Sometimes I have romantic dreams about returning for a year or two. I envision myself in a fifth floor walk-up in Hell's Kitchen writing on a typewriter.
Then I lived in Germany until I was 18. In Germany, the primary reference is fatherland. (German citizenship is determined by the nationality of your father.) When I left Germany, at 18, to live in Vermont, the transition was not easy. I missed the culture. My teenage friends and I talked about life and god and politics and what constitutes friendship. When I came to Vermont, the only topics were sports, cars, girls. Oh, and sports. Okay, well, there was girls *in* cars; that too. And sports. I missed Germany.
Now, only my stomach misses Germany for its food. That wasteland, that horrible place, that stink hole where, as soon as you step off the plane, you are choked by cigarette smoke. And practically the only thing for which you do not need a permit in triplicate stamped by three different bureaucrats, is smoking.
At night, sometimes I will dream I am not in bed, but in a plane heading back to Germany. I finally get to speak a language again that makes sense and have friends who mean it when they ask "How are you doing?"
The minute I arrived in Vermont at the age of 18, I felt my organs inside relax. They must have dropped by about an inch or two, and finally my lungs could breath deeply. Not just because of the clean air, but because of the views. And quickly I learned that nothing needs to happen quickly. I was in a car behind a car whose driver got to talking to a friend passing by. I sat there in shock as they talked through an entire green light and there wasn't a single honk from the line behind me.
I have lived here for 30 years now. And there isn't a week that passes in which I don't, at some point, look around, take in mountains, turning leaves, grazing deer, snow-capped peaks, sunsets over Lake Champlain and the Adirondacks, I look at one of these scenes and breath deeply and think or say out loud to whomever I am with: "I love it here. I am so lucky to live here."
In Vermont we say that Burlington is not Vermont. Burlington has a lot of "flatlanders" who have moved here. The rest of Vermont towns have had extremely small population fluctuations and thus are inhabited by families who have lived there for a century or two. One of the main differences of mindsets between Burlington and Vermont is that, after 30 of living in Vermont, Burlingtonians consider me a Vermonter. In the small rural town where I lived for five years and my daughter is now growing up with her mother, you are not a Vermonter until you have a few generations of your family in a local cemetery.
And that is how I feel. I feel to say that I am a Vermonter would be putting myself on a false par with the farmers who are dedicated to this soil which they work, and on which I only walk. And besides, I would feel it would be somehow disloyal to Manhattan. And a snub to Germany.
Perhaps, with a nod to John F. Kennedy, I need to say, "Ich bin ein Globaler." (Not a word that exists in any language I know, but it seems like it should belong in Esperanto.)
Perhaps all the wastelands I have ever experienced are actually just one single, horrible place. And my desire to be suckled on the nipple of a home is just the desire for a brief rest from life itself, wherever I find myself. And a reminder that life has much beauty left in it to feed my dreams.
"Cradle me, close my eyes, lullaby me to sleep."
Almost. I could almost fall asleep to that greater sense of home. But it is too much of a grand hall with too much of an echo for me to find rest.
Then, two days ago, an old friend (my first longterm relationship which ended 20 years ago) took me for a walk around a pond which I had never visited in all my years in Vermont. That walk solidified what had been simmering inside me for some time now.
We started on the pond's western edge in a field that was brown and firm from cold, but its wet spots were not quite frozen in this warm autumn. We could see a rise, Brigham Hill, on the far side of the half-mile-long pond. The low, shallow-mounded hill still wore a coat of muted colors, which was surprising for this time of year. We walked along board paths protecting the wetland from shoe-rutting. My friend saw a wild turkey retreat into the brush. And I half expected to be surprised at any moment by a pheasant exploding out from the underbrush and flying off.
From field we entered the woods onto a bare hiking path. Yellow brown poplar leaves carpeted the forest floor. As we curved the northern end of the pond, we hiked up through the inclined path between rock outcroppings forming the footings of Brigham Hill.
At odd turns in the path we would stop and point out to each other changes in landscape or vegetation. Look, now we are starting a gradual descent through firs on this east side of the pond. We rounded the southern belly of the pond, the end with the dam controlling its corpulence.
Back at the western edge, by the car, we looked back over the pond and surrounding woods. With pointed fingers along the landscape we traced the path we had taken. And then we both said, in so many words, the mantra I have been repeating for 30 years:
"I love it here. I am so lucky to live here."
I have to admit: I am not a "Globaler." I want a parochial, provincial, pastoral sense of belonging. I want a motherland. I want a very intimate, nipple sucking reassurance.
For many years now I felt this: I am a lost child. And Vermont is my adoptive mother who has taken me in.
I will leave Vermont again for periods of my life. I know that. I need that. I get too claustrophobic otherwise. But it feels good to have a motherland to come home to. If only adoptive.
"Close my eyes, lullaby me to sleep. Keep me safe, lie with me, stay beside me, don't go. Don't go."
Maybe it's simply because the singer can't figure out her feelings about her motherland. At times she calls her motherland "this wasteland, this terrible place." She turns her back on it and steels herself to show no emotion about leaving. And then, in the next breath, she begs her motherland to lullaby her to sleep.
"Motherland, cradle me, close my eyes, lullaby me to sleep. Keep me safe, lie with me, stay beside me, don't go."
I have been listening to that song every time I get into my car. Over and over again. "Motherland, cradle me..."
It is not coincidence that this song has captured my attention. I have been spending a lot of time thinking about where my motherland is. Where is my home?
I like to think of myself as a nomad. A pirate. A lone cowboy. One who needs no home. Belongs nowhere and therefore roams everywhere.
I remember being a teenager and listening just as obsessively to the James Taylor song "Sweet Baby James." I envisioned myself as that lone cowboy with nothing but a rolled up blanket on my saddle and someway to make coffee. At times it seemed real to me; that it would actually happen. As if I was having a glimpse into my future.
Maybe I am that lone cowboy now. Maybe not quite yet. I do have some freedom in being able to choose where I want to roam these days. But as with everything else in life, there is a cost. My cost is feeling that empty space where most people have a rich album of their homeland.
I grew up in Manhattan until I was ten. I and my three siblings spent almost every day of our lives in Central Park, which was only four blocks away. I loved it. And I am glad we moved away from that "wasteland, that terrible place." That place where we were trained to constantly be on guard for our safety. That polluted stink hole. Sometimes I have romantic dreams about returning for a year or two. I envision myself in a fifth floor walk-up in Hell's Kitchen writing on a typewriter.
Then I lived in Germany until I was 18. In Germany, the primary reference is fatherland. (German citizenship is determined by the nationality of your father.) When I left Germany, at 18, to live in Vermont, the transition was not easy. I missed the culture. My teenage friends and I talked about life and god and politics and what constitutes friendship. When I came to Vermont, the only topics were sports, cars, girls. Oh, and sports. Okay, well, there was girls *in* cars; that too. And sports. I missed Germany.
Now, only my stomach misses Germany for its food. That wasteland, that horrible place, that stink hole where, as soon as you step off the plane, you are choked by cigarette smoke. And practically the only thing for which you do not need a permit in triplicate stamped by three different bureaucrats, is smoking.
At night, sometimes I will dream I am not in bed, but in a plane heading back to Germany. I finally get to speak a language again that makes sense and have friends who mean it when they ask "How are you doing?"
The minute I arrived in Vermont at the age of 18, I felt my organs inside relax. They must have dropped by about an inch or two, and finally my lungs could breath deeply. Not just because of the clean air, but because of the views. And quickly I learned that nothing needs to happen quickly. I was in a car behind a car whose driver got to talking to a friend passing by. I sat there in shock as they talked through an entire green light and there wasn't a single honk from the line behind me.
I have lived here for 30 years now. And there isn't a week that passes in which I don't, at some point, look around, take in mountains, turning leaves, grazing deer, snow-capped peaks, sunsets over Lake Champlain and the Adirondacks, I look at one of these scenes and breath deeply and think or say out loud to whomever I am with: "I love it here. I am so lucky to live here."
In Vermont we say that Burlington is not Vermont. Burlington has a lot of "flatlanders" who have moved here. The rest of Vermont towns have had extremely small population fluctuations and thus are inhabited by families who have lived there for a century or two. One of the main differences of mindsets between Burlington and Vermont is that, after 30 of living in Vermont, Burlingtonians consider me a Vermonter. In the small rural town where I lived for five years and my daughter is now growing up with her mother, you are not a Vermonter until you have a few generations of your family in a local cemetery.
And that is how I feel. I feel to say that I am a Vermonter would be putting myself on a false par with the farmers who are dedicated to this soil which they work, and on which I only walk. And besides, I would feel it would be somehow disloyal to Manhattan. And a snub to Germany.
Perhaps, with a nod to John F. Kennedy, I need to say, "Ich bin ein Globaler." (Not a word that exists in any language I know, but it seems like it should belong in Esperanto.)
Perhaps all the wastelands I have ever experienced are actually just one single, horrible place. And my desire to be suckled on the nipple of a home is just the desire for a brief rest from life itself, wherever I find myself. And a reminder that life has much beauty left in it to feed my dreams.
"Cradle me, close my eyes, lullaby me to sleep."
Almost. I could almost fall asleep to that greater sense of home. But it is too much of a grand hall with too much of an echo for me to find rest.
Then, two days ago, an old friend (my first longterm relationship which ended 20 years ago) took me for a walk around a pond which I had never visited in all my years in Vermont. That walk solidified what had been simmering inside me for some time now.
We started on the pond's western edge in a field that was brown and firm from cold, but its wet spots were not quite frozen in this warm autumn. We could see a rise, Brigham Hill, on the far side of the half-mile-long pond. The low, shallow-mounded hill still wore a coat of muted colors, which was surprising for this time of year. We walked along board paths protecting the wetland from shoe-rutting. My friend saw a wild turkey retreat into the brush. And I half expected to be surprised at any moment by a pheasant exploding out from the underbrush and flying off.
From field we entered the woods onto a bare hiking path. Yellow brown poplar leaves carpeted the forest floor. As we curved the northern end of the pond, we hiked up through the inclined path between rock outcroppings forming the footings of Brigham Hill.
At odd turns in the path we would stop and point out to each other changes in landscape or vegetation. Look, now we are starting a gradual descent through firs on this east side of the pond. We rounded the southern belly of the pond, the end with the dam controlling its corpulence.
Back at the western edge, by the car, we looked back over the pond and surrounding woods. With pointed fingers along the landscape we traced the path we had taken. And then we both said, in so many words, the mantra I have been repeating for 30 years:
"I love it here. I am so lucky to live here."
I have to admit: I am not a "Globaler." I want a parochial, provincial, pastoral sense of belonging. I want a motherland. I want a very intimate, nipple sucking reassurance.
For many years now I felt this: I am a lost child. And Vermont is my adoptive mother who has taken me in.
I will leave Vermont again for periods of my life. I know that. I need that. I get too claustrophobic otherwise. But it feels good to have a motherland to come home to. If only adoptive.
"Close my eyes, lullaby me to sleep. Keep me safe, lie with me, stay beside me, don't go. Don't go."
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