Lessons From Mennonite Country
Last week, my son and I trekked out to the East Coast to visit dear friends of mine. California natives, these two badasses sold their home near the beach, bought an impressive acreage in the relative wilds of upstate New York, and promptly opened a creative agency together. That was four years ago, and I’d not seen them since. My son had never met them at all. I’d tried a few times before to make the trip work, but something had always come up: a new expense, an emergency something-or-other…but finally, everything came together, in that particular way that lets you know it’s right and good and in the cards. That is to say: it all happened very, very quickly. The skies parted, the angels sang, and bang!, we were on our way. This was A Very Big Deal.
(There’s something to be said about visiting someone who’s seen you at your worst more than once, particularly if you’re an uneasy houseguest like I am. It takes the sharp edges off. I tend to worry that I’m putting people out, and I experience these uncomfortable mini-fits of panicky oh-no-their-handsoap-smells-different or what have you, which are absolutely ridiculous but factor in nonetheless.)
Anyway, this Very Big Deal was Extremely Wonderful. I reconnected, my son connected, we communed with the land, we breathed clean, sweet, fresh air and roasted marshmallows and rowed around in the pond that’s oh look, right outside the back door. We held chickens and fed horses and had strong, hot cups of coffee outside in the chilly morning. I relaxed on a cellular level, truth be told. And I even managed to come away with a few life lessons. None are earth-shattering; they’re more simple truths, confirmed in brilliant Technicolor.
1. Even when it’s good, change is uncomfortable. Having more or less become a cyborg in the last few months [and surely my webgeekier friends would disagree, since I don't have an iPhone and prefer not to use 8 million types of apps and productivity tools--but for me, total cyborg land], it was very strange not to be suckling at the interwebs teat for hours on end. You may well scoff at this, as any reasonable person might (and I wouldn’t blame you), but it didn’t feel right simply because it was different. By the middle of the second day, though, it was over and I’d found I’d simply switched tracks. (And, as long as I’m admitting embarrassing things: it was a relief to know that it didn’t take much longer than that. I was a little afraid I’d become one of those people.)
2. Listen. To your hosts. To your traveling companion. To your body. Nap when you need to. Eat when you need to. Give them a break from you when they need it. Take a break from them when you need it. Tune in to the cues; they’re all around you and they know whereof they speak.
3. Let it go. You won’t see everything. Things will be closed. You’ll only be able to spend 20 minutes some places instead of the two hours you’d allotted. You won’t have all the conversations you’d intended. You may hate what you thought you’d love. It doesn’t matter. What matters is how you navigate.
4. Compassion beats awkwardness every time. We visited a neighboring Mennonite family who’d lost their husband/father nearly a year ago; he was killed by the horse that pulls their buggy. At one point I found myself standing in the horse’s pen with most of the kids, the mother, my son and my two friends. It was absolutely overwhelming, seeing these sweet, bright, loving children petting and feeding the animal that had killed their father. Having just met them all, and knowing next to nothing about Mennonite customs or social mores, I was hesitant to offer my condolences. But I couldn’t not, obviously, so I simply hoped that she’d forgive me if I was speaking out of turn somehow. We had a brief, gentle conversation about her loss, about how highly my friends had thought of her husband, about how lovely her family was. And the awkwardness disappeared.
5. Make it a point to be around the ones that you love and who love you. With every passing year, I realize how very much I gain from spending time with people that know me almost better than I know myself–and love me anyway. With these people, it doesn’t matter whether we’re visiting an incredible monument or just sitting around the dining room drinking wine and laughing for hours on end. (For the record, although our hosts gave us a wonderful grand tour and I loved every minute of it, my favorite moment from the trip was Sunday night between 9 pm and 2 am, when we–wait for it!–sat around the dining room drinking wine and laughing for hours on end.) It recharges you, gives you new ideas, new ways of thinking, new energy, new jokes, new memories. It makes all the difference in the world. Truly.
You need not travel for these axioms to apply. On the other hand, if it’s true that life is a journey–and it is–then we’re constantly traveling. And though we can’t control the transitory nature of our time here, we can control what we do with the time and experience. I’m really digging my travels of late. How about you?