Tom's Place

I am thinking about moving on. I've lived at the same address for more than seven years, a lovely cottage I rent in an older section of a quiet suburban town. I've made friends here and am comfortable, but lately a voice has been telling me my time here is complete. The house is at end of a dead-end street, a pregnant metaphor if there ever was one, but never mind that. I don't mean a subdivided cul-de-sac, but a true dead end. The road just stops. I cherished the place for my first five years, because the street terminated at an overgrown farmstead occupied by a old man named Tom. Mine was one of three small houses on the street overlooked by Tom's 300-year-old home and barn, both painted farmhouse red. Tom was a hoarder and not much on maintenance, so the yard was always overgrown and the house and barn were falling in. Yet for all its decrepitude, the house possessed a true beauty both of proportion and character.

The property was, as I said, an old farm, and the lot beside it was a grove of soaring trees, basswood and cherry, which each morning ignited with birdsong. Deer lived in the thickets, as did rabbits, raccoons and the occasional opossum. I was ten minutes from the capital city, living in a microclimate of rural charm. All that changed when Tom slipped and injured his wrist three winters ago, and his family, in-laws primarily, used the occasion to seize his power-of-attorney while he was in the hospital. They proceeded to commit Tom against his will to a nursing home, and soon a dumpster arrived at the house and strangers threw eight decades of my friend's life into oblivion. Some months later, I was awakened to the sound of chainsaws razing the grove of its trees. Finally, I left one morning for work with the house and barn still standing and returned after dark to a sense of something amiss. Tom's place was now a blank piece of land. Huge machines had erased both structures in a matter of hours.

There are four nearly identical suburban houses occupying Tom's property today, soul-free boxes conceived and built to maximize profit. And while they are not the only reason I'm feeling it's time to go, their presence is not an unimportant one. Love, Loss, and Forgiveness founder N. Michael Murphy speaks of the importance of the gaze, through which we regard the world not in scrutiny and judgment but with a receptive heart. The gaze is that mutual sharing of love that passes between mother and child. When we gaze in this way, be it at ourselves, another, an object or a landscape, we actively create this same experience of cherishing warmth.

Tom's home was a place where I gazed endlessly with my eyes, my ears, and my heart. Such a gaze no longer feels in place in my new suburban enclave. This is not an elegy for the way things were; I accept that things change and life moves on. I am changing as well as I progress in the work of LLF. My dead-end street and I, once well-matched, have transformed in opposite directions.  The time is nearly upon me when, as much as I will miss the pleasures of living here, staying will no longer be possible.