How often do we initiate conversations of complaint about how things have changed in our place of residence or place of former residence? Ah, but it’s human nature, we might say, to compare and contrast. Inevitably the conversation includes at least one of the following: I barely recognize the place; it no longer feels like home; the traffic has gotten horrific; there is so much new development that I don’t even know where I am; I no longer feel safe there; I can’t believe how many people there are there now; all my favorite hangouts are gone or out of business; etc.
The art of dissatisfaction, always based in comparison, is learned at a young age. In academia it’s not called “comparison,” but rather “critical analysis.” It’s considered a mark of intelligence to be able to prove why something is better than something else (or some one is better than someone else). In a world where we’re all specialists, comparison has become the normative way of distinguishing ourselves from others. In the music world, we boast the competitions we won in our bios. It’s a culturally accepted way of saying: “See me! I’m out front!” We even put someone in the White House who seems to have an unparalleled need to assert this.
Since the pivotal moment of leaving home to go to college, McLean, Virginia has only nominally been my hometown. The word “hometown” implies a connection to the heart, an instant recognition that fuses all the senses into agreement. But even if the feel of the air, the humidity level, the taste of the water, the touch of old friends, and the sounds of nature or traffic are familiar, inevitably the visual element has altered. And since most of us function with more than 80% of our sensory input coming from our eyes, that means that “it all seems wrong”!
I confess falling victim to that rabbit hole of complaints more times than I can count. The places I have lived and often return to – the Washington, DC area, the Bay area, London, New York – have each changed significantly during my lifetime. But with twice as many people now alive as were alive when I was born, so has the entire planet.
As I write this, I’m returning to my San Francisco home after a trip to my “hometown” to participate in a memorial service for my first organ teacher and mentor. Being in McLean had a remarkably different feeling for me this time than the several hundreds of other trips back to there starting with my college days and progressing forward to today. This time I wasn’t feeling the need to argue with it, resist its change.
What happened?
Within a few minutes, yesterday, I both participated in a memorial service for my mentor and teacher and went with my two brothers to place a rose on the graves of our parents buried in the adjacent churchyard. One, two, three. The three people that I was most inclined to argue with, to try to impress, to prove something to, and, yes, to revel in their unconditional love, have all passed.
“Passed.” That’s an interesting word. Like ‘past tense.’ But not. I prefer to think of it as having passed some thing along to me. They didn’t merely pass from the obvious way of living on this planet, they passed something to me – a mantle, in the Judaic sense. This is a responsibility to care for the future of our common humanity, to build a better (sustainable) existence, to focus less on learning and more on being, and to move inexorably into the role of an elder (in the Native American sense) ready and more than able to share acquired wisdom.
There I was, with no one to argue with and no one to impress. It’s not that I couldn’t still conjure the ways my parents couldn’t accept me for who and what I am, or the ways my mentor/teacher demonstrated petty jealousy about my career successes. Those truisms are part of my life. But it’s about the ability to forgive them, based in a compassionate understanding of their personal limitations, that finally dissolves the argument.
And so I come back to the affectual change in how I viewed my hometown on this occasion. Who says that things are always supposed to remain the same – especially when there are twice as many people in the world? Acceptance of the fact that McLean, Virginia owes me nothing, and that my memories of the past are meant to be internal musings, not external expectations, has made all the difference. This recognition frees me to embrace the incredible mystery of life, of death, of how we influence others, of who enters our path of influence, and especially how the heart can remain open.
Temptation to compare is, indeed, natural. But let’s face it, comparison only generates unhappiness. And it really is true that unhappiness is a choice.
May 10, 2019