Home is Somewhere

A bright red tuk tuk-- a three-wheel taxi-- roared down the steep Volcanic cliff and skirted past my ankles. As I hopped on the sidewalk a lazing dog lifted his head before resuming his nap. Some kids, definitely under 9 years of age, used a machete to open up coconuts at a fruit stand. Aromatic wood to cook dinner burned in my nostrils and blurred my view. My vision is conscious in San Marcos la Laguna, Guatemala. My eyes hungrily take in the sunset-steeped sky, the profile of trees along Volcan San Pedro, across blue, blue Lake Atitlan.

Guatemala becomes an adjective and an adverb. Guatemala knows itself. I know Guatemala. I know myself in Guatemala.

I start to think that Pennsauken, New Jersey, USA, the place I've chosen to call “home” is less self-aware. Suburban sprawl between Philadelphia and New York. Melting pot. Land paved over. Culture diluted by consumerism.

But that's crap too. Pennsauken knows itself. I know myself within it.

When I travel, especially to somewhere as sensory as San Marcos la Laguna, I'm wide open. I've set my email to vacation mode. There's a warning on my voice mail to not expect a quick call back. I'm off the grid and unavailable. I'm all in to wherever I am.

It's not that home is lesser than, it's that home is where I'm spread more thin.

This morning, work is canceled, a performance I'm supposed to give is probably rescheduled, and most on the northeast corridor of the US are hunkering down under a few more feet of snow. I'm catching up on work, planning yoga classes for the upcoming week, making playlists, and cleaning the house. My husband stood in front of the kitchen window doing dishes. I wrapped an arm around him and put my chin on his shoulder. As we looked out the window, the forsythia branches drooped under an inch of snow. The wet whiteness evened the landscape, while punctuating plant skeletons. If I decided to call this “foreign” or “travel” I would likely be enchanted.

Instead, I'm working to find mindfulness whether I deem my setting to be “home” or other.

An aspect of that mindfulness is consciously not answering every phone call and not feeling so obligated to respond to the email right this second (within twenty-four hours is reasonable). When I was freshly arrived in San Marcos la Laguna this last trip, I had a conversation about work-life balance. Part of this travel experience was work. In Guatemala, I offered two consecutive yoga retreats. I was working, but in a fabulous, sunny location with a lot of people who I love. In the course of the conversation, my companion shared that she no longer seeks “balance,” given that implies a static state. Instead, based on input from her teacher, she works to create “harmony.” Maybe it's semantics, but harmony to her meant an on-going rearranging, an continuous attentiveness to her well-being, her state, and her own well-being. I read it as mindfulness.

Anywhere in the world can be the site of our strife or it can be our haven. Home can be where the stress lives, or it can be sanctuary.

A few years ago I traveled throughout northern Spain with a friend. We were speaking at squats, community centers, and universities about political imprisonment in the United States. It was demanding work. I felt like I was on tour. Every morning, we woke in a different city. Every day, we traveled hours in a little van to our next destination. We arrived, spoke for a few hours, ate, and crashed in a new bed. The next day, we repeated the cycle.

My friend brought an iPod docking station. When we arrived in our room for the night she would play Stevie Wonder and pull mint tea packets from her purse. Something warm between our palms, fragrant mint aroma, and Stevie's familiar voice. I was so comforted by the little ritual and amazed at how quickly she found home. Because in this instance, when travel was work, home was relief. We sat and listened to the music and knew we could receive ease anywhere in the world. The whole world could be home. Home could be enchanting.