"By the rivers of Babylon we sat and wept when we remembered Zion. There on the poplars we hung our harps, for there our captors asked us for songs, our tormentors demanded songs of joy; they said, “Sing us one of the songs of Zion!”
How can we sing the songs of the Lord while in a foreign land?"
-Psalm 137, v. 1-4
A warm, slow start to the first day of June. My schedule cleared when two days of depositions vanished upon settling a case yesterday, and today's calendar shows a single phone conference and a Rule 26 disclosure due by close-of-business. Easy stuff.
So I took a little extra time reading my Kindle books out on the porch, enjoying the last of the cool air descending down the hillside with Deano sprawled in my lap.
This morning Pastor Keller sort of called me up short in his little book, playing the Nathan to my David, and I found myself pacing around Tara processing the insights.
Unfortunately, that led me to walk past a mirror, where I paused to marvel at the old man looking back at me.
With these rickety old legs
And these watery eyes
It's hard to believe
That I could pass for anybody's prize
Sometimes I don't see what P sees in me, although I'm grateful she does.
I finally settled into one of the barrel chairs in the bar back behind the kitchen, and started scanning the headlines on my tablet. Soon I was sucked into a long read about how very, very bad the situation has become for anyone who questions the right wing gospel in Sarasota.
Under the guiding hand of the Wee Governor, the radical right has wrested control of the local school board and fired the superintendent, brought in a radical think tank to guide the implementation of a revanchist curriculum, and begun to gleefully run the Libtards out of the school system and ultimately out of town. Oh, and they've destroyed New College--sweet, kind, goofy New College, where my son walked the stage at graduation dressed in penguin pajamas--and replaced it with something wretched.
There was a time when Sarasota held a special place in my heart. I watched Jim and PT walk away from the car and toward their dorm on the first day of their college adventure there at New College. Over the next four years my work brought me back every now and then during the school year, and I'd take them out for fabulous Thai food at the Bangkok, or Cuban fare at the Columbia on St. Armand's Circle across the bridge on Lido Key. We'd peruse the amazing art treasures at the Ringling Museum, which adjoins New College, or better yet the quirky car museum across the street.
I'd run through its leafy neighborhoods along the Gulf side of the old Dixie Highway in the predawn darkness, knowing a wave of oppressive heat would arrive with the sun. Once Jim turned 21, we'd plot his future course over a burger and beer at the Hob Nob, a 1950s drive-in that not only survived over the decades, but thrived.
As Jim and PT were graduating, Mer's son Liam arrived at New College and I was grateful for the excuse to do it all over again, taking him out for lunch when I was in town to check up on how his academic journey was treating him. Then Sean dropped his bags at the Pei Dorms, and I figured the tradition would continue, not anticipating the health issues that would scuttle his plans.
I guess the last time I was in Sarasota was maybe four years ago, when P drove up from her locums job in Key West to meet me there. My sense is that she was charmed with the place as well, so clean and cosmopolitan along the edge of one of the prettiest bays you'll ever see.
My heart still goes pitter patter when she gives me that look. What a wonderful thing.
Maybe Sarasota is that lovely still, but I can't see myself ever going back, not so long as the political lunacy continues. I won't add one more voice to the cacophony trying to analyze what caused that place and the rest of my old home state to descend into madness; I'm far from qualified to go there, and can't address the situation objectively.
Mostly I just feel a sense of loss that transcends nostalgia. It's not that we won't get those days back--remembering fondly the scene with these young men leaning into a basket of wings and curly fries omits the sadness that hung like a pall over my life back then, and left me weeping over my steering wheel every time I started driving back up I-75 toward the panhandle.
No, rather, it's the loss of what once was home, the dissociative sensation of becoming a sojourner because the place that nurtured you for a time no longer exists. But that's just life, isn't it? We long for a bedrock, but the only permanent feature of this life is constant change. That's hardly an insight, I guess. Things are very good right now, very good indeed. But all this is fleeting, and as soon as we grab onto a chunk of flotsam in this river of time and pretend we've anchored ourselves, we set the stage for disappointment. Best just to enjoy the moment.
And this moment, for better or worse, is about to be filled with the preparation of a witness list and damages summary for filing today. Selling my life in six minute increments, but at least there's still a market for that. And P will be home before I know it, and with tomorrow equally wide open (for me, anyway), we can relax and enjoy a lovely, cool upstate evening.
Selah.
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