The Seen and Unseen Explained

Feeling at home when you’re not at home and you don’t have a home and you’re not sure you’re ever going to have a home “home”, at least for now and the unforeseen future, is, well, like a butterfly that glides from flower to flower enjoying plant goodies, the Vitamin D-enriching sun, and the butterfly’s ohhh and ahh-ing admirers. I mean, who doesn’t stop and watch a butterfly? 

My home is my turtle shell with four wheels and the places I land. Like St. Helens, Oregon, for a beautiful, extended weekend with my Beaver State family, nieces and their husbands, children, and my brother and sister-in-law. They live within miles of each other in small town and upscale meccas outside of Portland. 

Oregon, if I haven’t conveyed it enough through prior blogs, is, I’m almost positive, the prettiest state in the Union. Green and green and green and blue and blue and blue, except for when it’s grey and grey and grey and grey. Fortunately, my days in St. Helens were mostly blue and the spectacular weather called us to visit the quaint town square transformed during the month of October into Halloweentown, the title of a Disney movie filmed there in the 1990s. The townsfolk do a great job recreating movie set details, like the skeleton-driving taxicab, the giant pumpkin, and Halloweentown entry sign framing out what looks like Opie’s Mayberry RFD. Small town America at its finest.

Which I also experienced the night before at my nephew’s football game, the St. Helens Lions vs. Astoria’s Fisherman. Cold, rainy, uber salty popcorn, the band, the cheer squad, the Halloween-themed halftime show, homecoming court, the king and queen, fumbles, recoveries, impressive passes and a final victory. While the game was good, tense at the beginning, what struck me most is this is stranger’s observation: the world could have been under a nuclear attack but St. Helenians would have been oblivious because it was Friday Night Lights and the only thing that mattered was The Game, the impending announcement of the Royal Court and those sweet, epic, nothing-ever-changes, cinematic, eyes twinkling, high school crushes. 

Has it really been 50 years since I was a senior? I could have been them. One day they will be me.

Crazy.

And so is Oregon’s weather. “Do you think it will rain?” I asked my sister-in-law, as the burnt orange sunset gave way to the howling moon.

“No,” she assured, looking west toward the vampire swirl of clouds. “Only 1% chance.”

You know the end of the story, which isn’t really the end. It rained. And it was cold. But it didn’t matter. Because we were together, cheering-on Gabe and his drenched teammates. 

Nothing ever really changes about first love and a parent’s and grandparent’s love for their kids. The cheering and thumbs ups and we’re-so-proud-of-you moments were glassy-eye beautiful and something I’ve missed as America’s Happiest Visitor. 

Sitting beneath coats and blankets as the rain fairy-dropped its forest-vitamin elixir and the crowd hooted and the Lions band drummed, was like being a calico patch in the perimeter of a frayed king-size quilt. I wasn’t The Story, but a small part of it, an observer stitching together pieces in search of meaning, in search of soul. 

Here’s the headline: It’s all about love.

Having a spaghetti and farm-to-table salad at Alexis and Christian’s dinner table, the taco bar two nights before with even more family, watching Carly play soccer on another cold night 40 minutes away in Beaverton, hanging out with her sis, June the Bloom and bro, Sammy the dinosaur, and devoted mama, Lindsay, even if it was for all-too short a time, hay-riding at Sauvie Island’s pumpkin patch, and enjoying a beautiful Saturday morning brunch, and attempting to mushroom forage with Roxie, Matt and Hugh, and my brother’s thoughtful gift of a bouquet of dried lavender to remember him on my journey, was as heart-full as it sounds. They all went out of their way to share what they love with me. 

What a blessed life I’m living! Understanding, on a deep level, that it’s not the doing, it’s the being with. 

Last year when I visited my Oregon family during an August heatwave, my brother had just transitioned back home after being hospitalized following complications from a nasty fall. Honestly, I thought it was the last time I’d see him. Since then, he’s been on several vacations and in less than two weeks he’ll be on a two-week European cruise with his wife and lovely granddaughter. While he’s not ready for a marathon, he’s walking with a cane and the aid of an electric wheelchair. His recovery is remarkable, which he owes to God, his stubborn Barker genes, and his amazing wife. He wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for her. 

That interconnected root structure. 

We are who we are because of the seen and unseen. 

Right now, I’m on the road to parts truly unknown. But in my pocket and in the makeshift nut grinder vase I picked up from an antique store in Halloweentown, are bits of moss, a tiny pinecone and a Japanese maple leaf I pinched from my family’s Belton Road home the day before I left, a reminder that home isn’t a building or post office address; it’s the people and the memories you share, both good and bad. 

I am evolving, learning, saturating myself with the knowledge that it’s the experiences, not the things, that shape us. If, and when, we’re willing to change our thinking, the entire world—not just a single address–can be our home.