The oft quoted phrase, “You Can’t Go Home Again,” is the title of a novel written by Thomas Wolfe and published in 1940, after his death.  In his book the author elaborates, “You can’t go back home to your family, back home to your childhood … back home to a young man’s dreams of glory and of fame … back home to places in the country, back home to the old forms and systems of things which once seemed everlasting but which are changing all the time – back home to the escapes of Time and Memory.”  (The ellipses are in the original.)

Yesterday evening I thought about this phrase as the four members of our present household (my wife, daughter, grandson, and me) sat in our family room, each eating our own separately prepared dinner.

When I was young my mother spent several hours each afternoon talking to me while cooking dinner for our family of four (Mom, Dad, my brother, and me), which, by Dad’s decree, always began at 5:30 pm.  I’ve missed the warmth of those family dinners for many, many years.

Now, after almost ten months of COVID-19 rampaging through the land, most everyone I know wants to go home again.  By that I mean that we all want to go back to “normal.”

Yet Thomas Wolfe was right.  We can never go back to the 1950’s, being young (or younger) again, or even to the comparative safety of the Thanksgiving and Christmas we knew in 2019, which now seems like a distant shore.

But home is more than a physical place or memory.  As Pliny the Elder wrote 2,000 years ago, “Home is where the heart is.”  It is where we feel, or should feel, safe.  In my life I’ve lived in eight homes, all in Los Angeles, each with its share of love, warmth, and memories.

I can’t go back to my family of origin, because I’m the only one of the four of us who now survives.  I can’t go back to the house I grew up in because it has changed, as have I.  Years ago my father and I returned to the location of the home in New York where he grew up.  We found it replaced by a large beer manufacturing plant that covered the entire block.

My father masked his disappointment with anger.  “I never want to come back here again,” he said.

Even if we can’t go back again, we can go forward.  In fulfilling our lives each day we can return our hearts to a place where we feel safe, a home we continually create and recreate, with and for those we love.

Will next year be different than 2020?  Of course.

But we can and will still be at home on this Earth we love.

Alan

The proverb “A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step” is attributed to the Chinese philosopher Lao-Tzu.

For me, my first step is often the most challenging.  I have consistently written my blog every week for more than seven years.  I never lack for ideas.  Most weeks I have two or three new ideas that I either immediately write down or promptly forget.  It seems that the better the idea, the more quickly I forget it, sometimes just as I begin to write it down.  That’s why I always carry a pen and paper, or an iPhone, and why I have accumulated a long list of ideas.

Once I sit down and write the title and first sentence of my blog, the ideas seem to flow.  But sitting down in the first place?  Ay, there’s the rub.

With so many paths available in life, you never know where your first step might take you. In terms of a career the first step is often preliminary to the discovery of one’s journey.  One of my young grandsons is fascinated by anything to do with building and city design.  He often discusses this subject with his maternal grandfather, who is a retired architect.  Will my grandson turn out to be an architect?  Perhaps. Encouraging his interest could be the first step in what might become his chosen career path, and without that first step he might never discover and develop his passion.

My son Craig, is a professor.  When Craig was a college undergraduate I asked him the typical parent question, “What did you learn this semester?”  He immediately began to rattle off a number of psychology studies, in detail, including the name of each author.  I was dumbfounded.  When I was a college student I generally remembered the basic ideas from a course, but never many details.  That’s one reason I’m not a professor. I was never willing to take even the first studious step.

Other areas of our lives also begin with an essential first step. A friendship begins with saying hello. A marriage begins with a proposal. “Will you marry me?” is a first step to what will hopefully will become a lifelong journey.

Two of my grandchildren, now in their twenties, have recently released original songs they have written and recorded.  Will one or both of them become the next Beyoncé or Frank Sinatra?  Time will tell.  I’ve never had a desire to write or record a song, so that’s a first step I’m not likely to ever take. I’ve published five books, however, and each one began with my writing down a single word.

I’m sure I will take a number of steps today.  I wonder which, if any, will be the beginning of a longer journey.

How about you?

Alan

I live in a house on a cul-de-sac, so I’m certain that every car driving South past my house will eventually turn around and head North back to the main street.

For the past forty years I have lived in a house on a cul-de-sac.  When I was walking in my neighborhood last weekend I wondered about the implications of that choice.

First, I don’t like the sound of traffic.  Whenever I stay in a hotel in Manhattan, I think that there must be a lot of fires or sick people there because the annoying sound of sirens is nonstop.

Second, I prefer my home to remain private.  No salesperson or Halloween trick-or-treater has ever knocked at my door.

Finally, all of my mail is directed to my office.  At home I only open the mailbox once a month to clear out the flyers and junk mail.

I realize that in my life I work either at 100% of capacity, or 0%.  There is no in-between, no second or third gear. I’m a little like my Tesla that accelerates from zero to 60 mph in three seconds.  At my office I’m always moving at 60 mph.  At home I pretty much remain at zero.

When I was growing up my father had a work of art above his desk in the den inscribed with the saying, “Let me live in a house by the side of the road, and be a friend to man.”  Perhaps the location of my home allows me to live by those words, written by the poet Sam Walter Foss more than a century ago.

There are hermit
souls that live withdrawn
In the peace of their self-content;
There are souls, like stars, that dwell apart,
In a fellowless firmament;
There are pioneer souls that blaze their paths
Where highways never ran;-
But let me live by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.

Alan