Within The Labyrinth

 Sometimes, the love of a place, or a moment, is for the reason as simple and complicated as being able to stop, and take a breath.

Somewhere during my time in Central Iowa, I distinctly remember a conversation that Becky and I had. Clearly, I was recounting my entire Iowa schedule to her, including the first three days which entailed actually ARRIVING to Iowa, cooking for Middle Eastern Hot Pan the next day, teaching TWO beekeeping classes for roughly 6 hours the day AFTER that, and an unscheduled stop to see alpacas, and then getting ready for a full day of selling things at Maggie's Sample Sunday. From there, we were tentatively going all the way to Cathy Linker Lafrenz's house, about 4 hours away.

"Wow, that is some kind of busy," I remember Becky saying. For a split second I had to stop, because I realized two things. First, I was puzzled--I didn't think it was too busy at all; the city lifestyle dictated that at least five or six days of the work week was EXACTLY that busy, if not more so. I also immediately realized that this was clearly a regional divide as to how and what people thought was important. IOWA busy wasn't New York busy, wasn't Atlanta busy wasn't Montana busy....

And this brought about an even bigger thought system into this crazy noggin of mine--the kind that constantly ponders the bigger picture of Life. Why DO we make ourselves busy, and why do some of us value it as such a virtue that we drive ourselves to smithereens, risking our health, sleep, happiness, sanity...in the name of...what, exactly?

Now, I want to point out, I'm talking a certain kind of busy. Clearly, there is a blessed sort of busy--the "I'm doing something I love and so I have to busily go about creating it," sort of busy is clearly not the same as "I want to amass this crazy wealth so I will work for this crazy corporation for 16 hours a day and never see my children until they are college age, and maybe I will get divorced from my wife because I never see her and when I do I am so numb and tired that I'm really NOT there for her or my family, and I will become depressed and lose my health and maybe start drinking and all this for a mansion and a yacht" busy.

And yet, at least in the city where I live, there is clearly a "keeping up with the Joneses" type mentality. There is a certain segment of people trotting around wearing the best clothes, with the most expensive bags and clutches, shoes that probably cost more than my rent, things made by high end designers, simply for the heck of it.  Their children go to private schools, they have nannies, no one talks to each other, and they are running around at jobs that constantly harangue them to no end. I am not saying that all of these people are unhappy, nor that anything they are doing is illegal, but there is a specific proportion of people who have so much on their plate, who need to GET IT DONE YESTERDAY, already(!) that you just end up shaking your head. For all of the money in the world, they are not happy.

Conversely, there are us working lot, tassled to some large girder of looming poverty that keeps us at a skittish pace, trying to outrun a city outrageously overpriced so that you don't lose your shirt. Instead, your social life, time off, and sense of sanity sometimes gets thrown into the shredder, a skewed way to live.

In the end, I'm not sure where it leaves one, so far within the labyrinth, trying to shake whatever phantom monster is around the corner.

I thought about this while I stayed at Becky's--there is a version of busy here, where one doesn't seem to gag or drown in it, losing themselves, their very essence in it. They OWN their busy-ness, and not the other way around. I also realized:  I've probably honestly TALKED to these wonderful people in the country MORE than I've really talked to anyone in New York.

Sad, perhaps, but the stark facts are simply that lots of urbanites  are RUNNING some unseen race to an unknown finish line in New York. They are swamped at work, hopping on the train to the next gig, running to get the kids, trying to pay a bill, off to the museum, out of town, onto one of the plethora of events happening and any number of things that will distract them from having an actual relationship with another person. I won't say that every single person followed this rule, but the stark irony is that in a big town filled with millions of people, the tendencies to spark friendships are rare. There is a disparity of trust, a strange isolation. There is no breathing room.

But in Iowa, there were plenty of moments to do outrageous things like: stop and look at nature. Walk along a desolate path and just talk to people, and learn from each other. Perhaps it's a strange nostalgia speaking, the type that longs for something sunny and picture-perfect. Perhaps that's naive thinking, maybe we all are more difficult, complicated creatures, but deep down, I don't think so.

In any case, Becky and I spent our last day, before she would drive me to the second leg of my Iowa tour, doing walking down paths and being enchanted by simple things, indeed:

Beautiful fields of gold...

 

 Becky lives close to a Canadian goose sanctuary, so much so that you could here them honking their goodbye as they lifted off for the season..here is a frozen moment, geese Southward bound for the winter....

A little frog friend found on the road..held for a moment and then released...

 A blurry picture taken amidst laughter, two friends in a field...

 

While I was the teacher, here, I was also the student. I will miss all of the fearless, fabulous ladies (and gents!) of Woodward, Iowa, this much I knew, even standing out on a country road, in the sunset, with one talented and fun friend.
Yes, the Midwesterners, they  inspire me everyday in my city life;  I will not forget the kindness of that place...maybe the labyrinth would not be so difficult to navigate with friends as guides, maps of the heart, echoes of laughter to lead out of the chaos...

.....and there were more adventures to come, as I was only half way done with my trip!