Tag: place

Re: York

I’ve learned to pay attention to symbols. I don’t always know their meaning at the time they present themselves but I get a certain pause that tells me to look again. I wonder if I am getting a message from my future self or simply a memory of something. Maybe something like a time capsule where the thought was packaged for future viewing only.

Anyway it might explain why I woke this morning to a nursery rhyme about a grand old Duke of York who had 10,000 men. When I came down for breakfast I was captivated by the way my bride had hung her sun hat over a chair post that had a cotton New Yorker book bag tangling. I continued to stare at the story created by hat and bag and chair. A memory came; of rushing to see my father after learning he was taken to a hospital in Maine. The journey required me to fly from England and catch a Grey Hound bus leaving from downtown New York at 2 in the morning. This mega-city was awake, bustling even, as I sped on foot through Times Square towards the subterranean depot.

I buttered my toast humming a medley of songs about the city that never sleeps: Barry Manilow told of how he survived by keeping the New York City rhythm in his life. Rod Stewart harmonized in a melancholic ode to a girl he hopes he’ll see tonight on a downtown train. Neil Sedaka chimes in to say he loves the place he calls his home. My breakfast ends with me tap dancing with Gene Kelly and his pals in a scene from On The Town; “The people ride in a hole in the ground.”

My English roots mean I’ve eaten sizzling hot Yorkshire Pudding (roast beef is a meager meal without its presence pooled in gravy on the plate). I’ve even been to the old Roman City of York with its magnificently preserved Cliffords Keep and the majestic cathedral York Minster. The latter construction is a massive structure that dominates the city yet the walls have carvings that give the building the lightness of lace. I feel a pull to both Yorks; the old and the new. I would like to live in either city to resolve the emotional tug that comes from anything York-ish.

Picking up the latest New Yorker magazine, I linger with the manuscript in my hands, looking at the cover art, hoping it holds the promise of unravelling the mystery that is symbolism. My love of magazines notwithstanding (the power and beauty I find in words written there) yet this magazine is a flimsy structure despite the heft of the title page font: New Yorker. “This has meaning”

Perhaps I am crossing borders to my Angle ancestors when I speak the word York as in some mystic chant to summon images of hunts for wild boar. The symbolism that draws me to that city; a geographical place but more than that. I wonder if there is something coded in my DNA.

Re: Location

Location, location, location is a classic real estate slogan designed, I think, to make you feel lucky about the prospect of buying an over priced house that still need lots of remediation. I can’t complain since each time I have relocated in my life I have been fortunate to have initiated the move and I’ve found the resources to be satisfied with the result. I ache for those who are forced from their homes due to poverty, war or other threats. Globally we are seeing a rise in mass migrations. Some of our cities are having difficulty finding positive solutions for a homeless crisis. Choosing one’s own location, geographically or metaphorically is healthier for all concerned if you can have options available to you.

As a child I was fascinated with stories of wandering animals: Mammals that magically find their way to feeding grounds. Butterflies that spend months flying to seasonal homes. Birds that navigate huge distances to locate their nesting sites. The life cycles of eels and salmon over generations that necessitate unimaginable journeys to sometimes secret locations. Dolphins and other whales that use echo-location to maintain their position within their pods and their bearings on where they are headed.

My eldest son brought me news about a day trip that had him slightly flustered. Finding himself located at the end of a rural road, he admitted he wished he had a map: The paper foldable kind that was always in the glove compartment of a car. (I can hear someone asking, “What’s a glove compartment?”). Anyway, number one son was temporarily lost, without a GPS signal and no way of locating his position on this remote country road. He eventually got some bars showing on his phone, downloaded a map and figured out his way. As he told me his story I thought of learning how to use a compass as a Boy Scout. The leader advised us earnestly that with this device in our pocket we would never, ever, be lost.

Philosophically speaking, knowing one’s place in time and space brings confidence and comfort. That’s how we get the feeling of Home. As life ticks along, that original location where we were born, where we grew up, where we had our first experiences provide a mark on the map of our life. Many conversations start with, “So, where are you from?”, for good reason. Those we meet feel less lost when they hear the answer to that question. It helps to know where we are in relation to others we meet. Societal relationships depend on this orientation of its citizens as needfully as some animals need the stars to navigate home.

I feel discomfort when I can’t locate my needful things. As I age my memory helps me recall where I’ve been so I can make sense of my present circumstances. I can be less concerned with the future when I know where I am in the present. Life is a constant journey of finding yourself in relation to your surroundings and yes, sometimes a map helps.