Finding Balance

I have a good friend who loves the familiar. If she finds a good breakfast spot, she wants to go there again and again. In the spirit of the TV show Cheers, she enjoys a place where everybody knows her name. I, on the other hand, can hardly stand walking the same two square miles week after week. I crave change and newness, but I am my best self when I can find that delicate balance between that which is comfortingly ordinary and that which is disconcertingly different.

My husband and I recently spent a week in Vancouver, British Columbia. Like my adopted home of Portland, Oregon, the metropolis has the quintessential character of the Pacific Northwest. So, it could be argued, it was hardly like immersing myself in an entirely different culture. Still, the week took me out of my routine into a city of dizzying skylines and at least a hundred languages. At the risk of sounding like guru Rick Steves, travel expands my horizons beyond that amazing Malaysian meal or the totem poles carved by First Nations artists. It makes me think about how the random nature of birthplace and parentage affects who we become – and divest myself of any cultural superiority that clings to me. Even in the midst of inclement weather, a sort of spiritual sunshine lights my way as I discover new things. My brain gets curious. My heart wonders. My eyes notice details I often overlook. I thank the universe that I am not shooting 35mm film and click away happily on my smart phone to capture these memories. Of course, I’m old enough to know that all places have their problems, and Vancouver’s are not unlike ours. Homelessness and drug addiction abound, and the cost of housing is sky high. But just for the moment, it was good to walk the sea wall amidst a backdrop of snowy peaks, wander the European-style Public Market, and admire the work of an indigenous artist whose people, the Haida, I hadn’t known existed. As a writer, all these experiences remind me to see more sharply, to pay attention.

Returning to Portland, the city seemed oddly dull. It didn’t help, of course, that it was gray and rainy. But before long, I marveled at my neighbor’s blooming camellia, glanced at the stacks of books awaiting my consumption, and mentally prepared a list of invitations to family and friends. I slept well in my bed.

I am happy to be home. Just not for too long.