Five and a half weeks here in Chicago. I feel as though I blinked and over a month of my life just flew on right by me, but at the same time, it's hard to believe I haven't been here much longer. As you can tell, I'm still a little disoriented by all the shifts that have occurred around me. New home, new friends, new daily rhythm, new weather, new city...same me, for the most part. I don't have much of an idea of how I'll be changing in my new circumstances, though I have an idea of who I'm becoming.
Despite the unrelenting waves of change, there have been a few moments over the past month where I was surprised by a piece of home, or at least familiarity, popping up out of nowhere and reminding me that there is some constancy in all of this. During all these times, I was struck by this feeling of ease and naturalness, where I could completely drop the act of trying-learning-adjusting-meeting-analyzing-making good impressions-putting forth effort-intentionality that is part of life when you've just begun a new chapter.
One of the first times this natural, familiar feeling swept over me was...oddly enough...in the gym. A bunch of the Seminary students play basketball two days a week, and I've been going since my first week here. When I was on the court (maybe the second week in), it struck me why I had been loving my time playing basketball so far. The basketball court was a place where I could effortlessly, naturally, just be myself. I knew the rules to basketball; they didn't change from New York to Illinois. I didn't have to put forth a constant effort to be friendly and engaging and social so I could get to know people....it's basketball. You just play. The other players are automatically going to accept you as long as you try hard and aren't some show-off punk who never passes the ball. And in the meantime, while I was completely at ease to be myself in a setting that's been a part of my life since as long as I've been old enough to dribble a ball around my driveway, I naturally started forming some friendships. Who wouldn't want to make friends when we're all elbowing each other in the face/gut/arm and wheezing because none of us are in as good of shape as we should be?!
Another place where the feeling of home touched me was in the Seminary's chapel, where the Most Beautiful Thing in the World lives.....a Steinway piano. Well. I guess that's a close second, right after the Spirit of God. It's absolutely lovely. The chapel's open all day, so as long as there's not a service or lecture going on there, it's sitting quietly waiting for me to come by.
Strangely, I feel completely at ease whenever I'm walking around my new city or riding the L. I guess I feel at home whenever I'm exploring someplace new. I've taken the L to different parts of Chicago a few times now - to visit Angela at DePaul, to go to the Covenant conference near the O'Hare airport, and to the northern edge of the Southside for a conference on faith-based organizing - and I can't imagine getting tired of discovering new parts of this city. I love seeing all the people, walking down streets and by buildings that hold more history than I could ever unravel, and just being a part of this incredible buzzing, bright, ever-moving, ever-creating mass of humanity that make up this huge community.
One day last week, my class was cancelled (is there ever a better surprise than that?) so I was walking down Foster Ave towards the pharmacy. As I walked along, I had this irrepressible bounce in my step as I traveled through my new neighborhood, which I'm coming to love. My mind always goes into active mode while I walk - thinking through things, processing what's around me, and/or praying. [I've had a lot of good walks with God, often in cemeteries. Since most everyone around you is dead in a cemetery, it's easy to have undistracted conversations. Also, you get reminded of your mortality again....and again....and again, which can also encourage you to talk to God..]
People, cars, sounds, all of this is rushing by me as I walk, thinking about how simple it can be to blend into the background in a city. Anonymity and isolation are easiest when you're surrounded by an overwhelming sea of distractions and characters. I feel just the tiniest tug of loneliness - not a bad loneliness, more like an awareness of being by myself at the moment - when I hear a siren behind me, getting louder by the second. A little old woman in front of me, wearing a purple coat with the hood up, turns slowly around to see the source of the calamitous noise coming our way. As I pass by her, walking a million miles per hour (as usual), I hear her voice. I don't have much of an idea of what she's saying, but I turn back to look at her and see if she is addressing me. [I like to think she said "I wonder if they're coming after me," and based on what I understood from our conversation, I may not be far off the mark.]
She talks again, louder, but not looking at me. I slow down a bit, then stop. She starts speaking again, looking directly at me now. Her thick accent is Eastern European, her old voice is a bit crackly, and her head is approximately 4 1/2 feet off the ground, so you'll forgive me if I had trouble following the story she tells me. The Reader's Digest version of what I interpreted: she went to a church down the street for dinner (it was 1:45 in the afternoon..), got (or didn't get) some food, wanted to take cookies home but they didn't let her (again...not sure how much of this is accurate....but she did say cookies at least a dozen times and seemed quite annoyed), and they told her if she wanted more food to come back at 6:30. She got mad, took her money, and left.
Whatever she says, I just nod and smile and make generic comments back, since I don't want to make her repeat everything 8 times and still not understand it. As we walk slowly together towards the pharmacy on the corner, she abruptly changes the subject on me. "You are Polish?" comes out of her mouth, and I can't help but smile. This old woman on this busy street in this new city, where I often feel everything is so unfamiliar, new, or changing, could take one look at my face and correctly guess my ethnic heritage. I tell her she's right, that my father's family was 100% Polish, and then she tells me she is Greek. She asks me my name. She tells me her name is Patricia. I tell her about being a student at North Park, and her only question about school is if I'd met any Greek people there yet. When we reach the pharmacy, we smile and wave as we say good-bye, and I walk off feeling like a little piece of home has just reached out and pierced me in the midst of this brand-new life.
