A Dark And Quiet Room

written on 6/10/2002

Ever try to think about something so big, so mind-boggling, that you can’t wrap your mind around it? You try to get a grip on it, but it’s just too large of a concept to grasp?

That’s how I feel about this move.

There’s the logical part of me, the part that has served me well in my tenure as a law librarian, the part that reminds me that, in three days, I will be leaving Erie. For the last time I will drive down I-90 as an Erie native. Every mile that I drive will take me *closer* to my home, not further away. Every mile that I drive will take me away from my family and closest friends. Soon I will set my clocks by Central Time, not Eastern Time, and the closest body of water will be the Illinois River. I know all this. But, for some reason, my emotions have not quite caught up with my logic. For, although I know that the biggest move of my life is coming up in just a couple of days, I also feel that I’ll be returning to work tomorrow. After all, my last day at Knox Law Firm was only Friday. I’ve taken vacations that have lasted longer than this. You watch. In a couple of days I’ll be dashing out the front door, running exactly five minutes late. I’ll park my van three blocks from work (it’s the closest free parking that is available consistently) and hurry to work. I’ll slide into my cubicle, power up my computer, turn on the desk lights, and begin the day.

How do I explain all the boxes? Beats me. Somehow, I think that they must be the new decor.

Crystal (my wife) has been packing for a couple of months now. I can never find *anything* anymore, and it’s usually because she packed it. (She packed my books. Can you believe it?) But that’s just our new style…or something. Oh right. We’re moving. I forgot.

And that’s how I feel. I say goodbye to my friends, knowing that it will be long months before I see them again, even though we’ll all be at church next week. I visit special places, saying goodbye without really knowing why. Oh right. We’re moving. I forgot.

On Memorial Day, my family threw my a surprise birthday party. My birthday is actually in July, but Crystal knew that I would struggle with my first birthday away from family. So she schemed for months—literally—and pulled together an awesome party. She presented me with a genuine Japanese tea ceremony.

True confession: I am turning into a Japanophile. There are lots of reasons for this, but one salient reason is that I love their aesthetics. Crystal knows this, so she did the research, bought all the ingredients (including some very obscure vegetables), and made it. She cooked the food, she set up the area, she made (or bought) the decorations. My family also assisted. One of my sisters helped prepare and serve the food. Another sister made me my very own hakama. My last sister kept me out of the way by taking me to see Star Wars. (Such a difficult task).

And then, at the end of the ceremony, they presented me with my swords.

For a year or so, I have been studying aikijutsu and kenjutsu under Master Dunfee. I have fallen in love with kenjutsu. For years, learning how to use a sword was on my list of “cool things that I’ll never be able to do�. Now I’m learning. When we decided to move to Peoria, Crystal made some phone calls and discovered that there is a kenjutsu school in Peoria. And now I have my own swords. Of course, there is a lot of importance attached to swords in the Japanese culture. So, not only are these tools of my developing art, these are objects of respect and symbols of highest honor.

I felt so loved by my family that my heart could have burst. Such an outpouring of love. So unexpected. I hugged them all, and in that moment, the spectre of our parting hovered in the air.

Remember? We’re moving.

My emotions still grapple with the thought. Today, they found a fingerhold.

Today was scheduled to be a major packing day. And so I found myself in the back yard, near my pond and the proto-garden that exists near the back fence. The rear half of my back yard is shaded by a huge tree. Its branches soar into the sky yet sweep down within six feet of the ground. Walking into the rear of my yard is almost like stepping into another room of the house. The low-hanging branches and rustling leaves create a low ceiling that suddenly arches into a huge natural dome. It’s so beautiful. Crystal and I were slowly working on forming that part of our yard into a Japanese decorative garden. Last year the entire family had installed a pond back by the rear fence. Earlier I had been given a string of low-voltage garden lights, and I had placed them along another section of fence, near the picnic table. Near the entrance to this garden area, I had placed the wrought iron lantern that I had been given. Then, overhead, I had hung my wind chimes.

My wind chimes are special. I paid extra money to buy the wind chimes that were musically tuned. The different chimes sound notes that actually go together. This was important to me. I feel that many wind chimes end up with notes that clash, rather than complimenting each other. My wind chimes aren’t especially impressive to look at, but then again, you’re not supposed to look at them. You’re supposed to hear them.

So today, I was in the back yard, packing the things that we would be taking. The two plastic lawn chairs were already packed, as was the small glass-topped table. The picnic table is far too large to take, and the pond is being left, hopefully improving the value of the house when we try to sell it. So I began packing my lights. I found the control box and started untangling all the vines that had grown around the cord over the last couple of years. Then I saw my wind chimes. They were still hanging in the tree where I had put them. I took them down and began to put them on the picnic table
so that I could take them into the house. The motion shook the chimes and they began to chime.

I stopped, standing silent, listening to the chimes.

Then, instead of putting the chimes down on the table, I hung them up in the tree, closer to where I was working. I bumped them again so that I could listen to their song. Quickly I packed the lights into a box, pulling them free of the vines and grass. Then, taking the box in one hand, I took the chimes in the other and walked around to the front of the house. The chimes sang to me the whole way.

I came inside, still holding the chimes. Crystal was passing through the living room. I caught her. I embraced her. I started to cry. For in that moment, I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that we were moving.

The chimes told me so.

Right now, those chimes are not in a box. Nor will I pack them away. Instead, I am putting them somewhere special, some place where I can easily find them. And when we get to Illinois, once all the boxes are moved into the house, I know the first thing I’m going to do.

In the new house where we are moving, there is a front room with several windows. Crystal and I have already decided to turn this into a sitting room, a place where we can visit with guests or just read and enjoy the sunlight and a pleasant breeze.

I’m going to get my wind chimes. I am going to open a window. And there, in the center of that window, I am going to hang my wind chimes.

Perhaps their soft song will soothe me. Maybe, for a moment, they will make me forget how far I am from the ones who love me. Maybe somewhere in their shimmering notes I will find peace. Maybe, as they rustle and tinkle in the wind, I’ll begin to feel like I’m coming home.

Addendum
In our house, we say, “Home is where the hard drive is.� Tomorrow evening, I’m going off-line for a few days. If I’m able to check email on Sunday, I’ll consider it to be a surprising blessing from God. So, if you’re trying to contact me via email, please be patient. I’ll try to get to you expeditiously.

(written on 6/10/2002)

In a couple of days, I am moving. I am pulling up stakes, traveling from Erie, Pennsylvania (my home of 16 years) to Peoria, IL. The next several months are likely to be busy, emotional, hectic, turbulent…and memorable. In just a couple of days, I embark on the newest adventure of my life. And I want to share it with you. The joys, the pains, the wackiness, all of it.

There are a few reasons that I wanted to do this. The first is quite simple. I want to have a record of these times, something that I can read years from now to remember how God was good to me. Also, there are a lot of people to whom I promised regular updates on my life. I *know* that I’ll never get around to writing everyone, but if I write something regularly, I’ll be able to keep everyone informed on my life. Finally, I think that I need further writing practice. Just like any skill, writing needs to be practiced to be improved. Writing about my life on a regular basis should do the trick.

So, for the next few months, you will be getting these emails from me. I don’t know how I’ll end up scheduling these journal entries. After all, my schedule right now revolves around the transportation of millions of boxes halfway across a continent. I’m fairly sure that my new job will allow a little more flexibility than my current occupation.

So, once I get settled into my new home, I’ll figure it all out. I will admit that I’ve “opted in� a number of you. (Privacy advocates would be shocked!) I’m not trying to annoy anyone, so if you want me to stop bugging you with my ramblings, please just drop me an email and let me know. I’ll stop pestering you immediately.

Since I’m moving in the near future and feeling the insanity, I thought of the Illinois Journal that I kept during my first year in Illinois. Mostly, it focused on that first summer, documenting my thoughts and feelings at the time.

At the time, I was emailing it out to select individuals, but, in a way, it was my first blog attempt. So, four years later, I thought that I would share this with all the rest of you. I haven’t edited anything from the original messages, so be aware of that, as I talk about emailing and suchlike.

By the way, Crystal took these entries, printed them up on quality paper, and hand-bound them into a book for me. It’s up on the high shelves, so that the children can’t get to it. My very own hand-bound book. Nifty!