Six years ago — when my wife spent her summer volunteering at a girls orphanage in Cusco, Peru — my eyes were opened to the idea of what it means to experience adventure. Prior to that, I considered it adventurous every time I went “South,” and by South, I mean the casino 15 miles from my house. But my wife taught me a new definition, a truer definition (AS SHE DOES WITH MOST THINGS), of the word adventure. Here is a poem I wrote last summer about our current adventure in Saudi Arabia.
There is a super hero action figure sprawled on the roof of our garage,
His arrival there a result of an impressive toss by my 4-year-old son,
I have little motivation to retrieve that action figure.
And in fact, it and a few other figurines
Spent the winter lying on that sun-damaged roof.
A visit today to the gray house on Grace Street
Would reveal Super Hero and Friends still sprawled atop
Those cracked and peeling garage shingles.
But our realtor’s comparables and algorithms and data
Insist I must retrieve said Super Hero
And replace the shingles,
If we intend to transform this home
Into somebody else’s.
For the most recent decade of my life, I’ve resided inside the walls
of this home,
and I have colored inside the lines of this life.
I’ve avoided fireable offenses at work
And divorceable blunders at home.
And now, as I stare out at the superhero-adorned garage
From the kitchen window of our family’s
I feel trapped
Like a bird in a cage.
Being this is the Home to which
We brought from hospital
The Home where we occasionally attempted
For our daily grind,
Our nightly rests.
I love this place,
And yet at this moment
I swear I don’t.
An ember in my soul
That we not be
To physical space and place,
Neither places of white winters,
Nor spaces of desert mirage.
And that this cozy, Grace Street abode
Not be our boundary.
Nor our final rest stop. We have somewhere to be,
are assigned our posts,
inhabiting somebody else’s house.
We’re hoping to transform “Home”
From a place,
Into a thing,
A big, hairy
Full of foibles
Into an experience,