I’ve long had a troubled relationship with home. Allow me to explain. Historically speaking, the notion of “home” has suggested a measure of constancy that’s proved intolerable to me. It’s implied the same people, the same experiences, the same life, day in and day out. Of course, there are always changes around the edges, and maybe that’s enough for most folks — more than enough, maybe — but it hasn’t been for me. Change involves risk and risk involves the possibility of failure, demoralizing, excruciating, irremediable, intractable, paralyzing failure. Why take that chance, right? Home is your safe harbor in an uncertain world and, unless you live in a van down by the river, it’s solid, immovable. But here’s the thing: what is life without change? Okay, it’s comfortable, less stressful, and probably more rewarding in any number of ways, but what kind of story does it tell? Seriously. Character, as Goethe says, is best formed in the stormy billows of the world.
Okay, maybe I’d like to have a home and some sense of stability. Maybe I’m just rationalizing the billows and stuff. It’s about happiness, right? Why haven’t I been able to find happiness in one place? Let me count the ways: issues with livelihood and relationships, affordable housing, pathways to dreams, delusion, boredom... Shane. *
I had a much different view of “home” when I was nine. That was when all things seemed to align. I lived in a brick, middle class home in Albuquerque, New Mexico, with a dirt backyard ideal for horny toads and fort-building. I had a job that I liked: elementary school. I enjoyed my leisure time, hunting for critters on the mesa, summer days spent at the pool. Back when kids were free-range. I had a cute little tomboy girlfriend just down the street who completed me. I had two older brothers who were much too concerned with their own lives to think about beating me up, and two parents of the traditional sort, 50s dutiful, the breadwinner and the housewife, neither one all that concerned about how I spent my days. I dreamed of living a cowboy’s life, but beyond that it never occurred to me that life need be anything other than what it was. Then the word came down. We’re moving. Actually, I have no recollection of what I was told. The only thing that I remember is asking whether that meant that I’d have to let my captive ground squirrel go. Yep. Route 66 motels don’t cater to terminally frightened ground squirrels, and the back of a ‘59 Ford station wagon only has room for three crusty kids and their “Archie” comics. What followed were six schools in six different states between fifth and eighth grade. I learned to adapt.
And so it began. My life as a nomad. No horse, no six-shooter, no chuck wagon in sight. A life dictated by the promise and the allure of change. A life of risk and reward. A life of expectation and anticipation. A life of looking beyond the horizon. A life of achievement and discontent. A life wherein there was no place for sameness. It was forever something. I was okay with it, you know. It was a process, one that took precedence over marriages, children and steady employment. Come to think of it, there IS an element of cowboy to it. The quiet loner. Freedom and justice incarnate. Untethered, undaunted, unavailable. Always another lawless prairie, another right to be wronged, another heart to be won and broken, another exciting chapter to be lived. Great stories are about change, you see, and I want mine to be worth telling, if only to myself… Or maybe I simply want too much from life – a dreamer, you might say – and I’m too damned stubborn to settle for less. Eyes on the prize, damn the torpedoes… Nah. I like the story thing. It sounds less misguided.
Ninety-six moves over the course of my 76 years. Of course, for the last twenty it’s been pretty much just a matter of saddling up and hitting the trail, which makes 51 somewhat less impressive. I’ve managed to simplify my life to the point where everything I need fits neatly into my car. Everything else is stuffed into a ten-foot storage locker. At times my car feels like the closest thing that I have to a home. Not that I live in it, not unless you count the nights spent sleeping in rest stops to save money on motels. It’s just that it’s always there for me, it’s familiar, it’s comfortable, and it’s the clearest manifestation of my freedom and independence. But don’t get me wrong, most of this hasn’t been the result of some romantic notion of freedom. For many years it was about the clash between my need to make a living and my somewhat unrealistic and impractical decades-long pursuit of my special bliss. They don’t tell you that there’s price to pay for that. The good news is that social security is somewhat bliss-friendly. The bad news is that it’s totally oblivious to the obscene cost of housing. Consequently, home has become a series of cheap room rentals, house-sitting gigs, the occasional sojourn in my daughter’s spare bedroom, and long, pointless cross-country drives. Mercifully, Shane was spared such a humbling old age.
It wasn’t always this bad. And by “bad” I mean that in the past it was much easier to find a place to hang my hat, at least temporarily, which has long been the extent of my commitment. I knew that if I could just simplify my life enough, I could always find something, and eventually my Hollywood ship was bound to show up, making things much easier and perhaps even more stable. That was my thinking fifteen years ago, five years into my screenwriting journey. I had the passion, the life experience, the imagination, the work ethic and the writing ability. It was only a matter of time, right? Well, think again, Sparky. The world has changed, and though I tell myself that said ship might be breaking the horizon any day, that’s something that I’ve been saying for the past twenty-two years, and hopes don’t pay the rent. Still I persist. What choice do I have? It’s this, or Walmart greeter, and I’d rather die with my boots on. Besides, I wasn’t voted most stubborn in my senior class for nothin’.
At this point in my life I don’t know that I could ever settle, but I’d like to try. I’d like to trade my saddle for a rocking chair, and put the horse out to pasture. I’d like to have the comfort of a dog. I still have a dream, but it’s not out there, over the next hill. I’ve been over that hill, and it’s just another hill. There’s no yellow brick road, so for now I’ll just have to go where the current takes me, and home will have to be wherever I can find it. But, hey, if nothing else, there might be a good story in it.
* Shane is a gunfighter in a 1953 movie of the same name. This reference is new to me. What about you? Do you know this reference? Have you seen this movie? Can you relate to this archetype?
Rachel Stevens is a former Marine Corps Judge Advocate and recovering Texas trial lawyer, an artist, screenwriter, and humble wayfarer. A proud parent and grandparent. An incurable romantic. Most Stubborn in her senior class. A transgender woman of unexpected sensibility and circumstance, relentlessly weaving her way through the rich tapestry of life. You can visit her website, Magical Critter, here. Her memoir, Blowing Up Rachel, is available in paperback and on Kindle. (And - this is Jan talking - it is honestly extremely good. Serious stuff told in a very funny way. Everyone should read this! Also, one of her films, Ants & Airplanes, is only 21 minutes long but had me thinking about the characters for weeks.)
I really enjoyed reading Rachel's story and thoughts on home. It's so beautifully written, reflecting the wit and wisdom of a richly lived life.