I left Arkansas in 1988. It was time and I was ready. Homes and starting places of all sizes, shapes, and spaces lie and wait for the leaving. As a parent I know it is coming—I watch and hold on with hurting heart as my own children, nestled today in an embrace, slowly outgrow my arms and lap in order to jump out, away from me. I, too, grew and flew, leaving limestone caverns, chicken houses, and roots in search of something different.
A tale of leaving is a rich weave, for, in the midst of change, movement, and parting of all sorts, there is will. A need unfulfilled, a calling, an avoidance, so many choices to change a course.
And, in this place where heart is used, stories are found. As we pack bags, we cull and categorize; this pile for the journey, this one for discard. Here, wings for flight. Here, a chrysalis holding a shape from before, now useless. In this winnowing we define ourselves, stripping off layers to go in the direction of the new.
My leaving path had begun years before when I joined a children’s choir at church. Over time and years I learned to be a cantor, leading evensong services, and singing baritone solos in Handel’s Messiah. In high school I saw a poster from Oberlin Conservatory—a nighttime picture taken from outside a practice building, the camera spying on multiple floors of illuminated students. There were singers, violinists, brass players, and pianists—focused faces with hearts working at the intersection of hands and mind. To see this was to crave it, I yearned to live in that space, far away from Hemmed-In Hollow and the rest of my native experience. And, with luck and to my great surprise, I arrived on that very campus on northern plains with unobstructed sunset views over flattened earth. And was struck dumb.
In that space I was allowed, able, and encouraged to hold music closely, to live within the sonorous walls of my own heart. Walking practice hall passages, I could overhear concertos and cadenzas, sonatas and arias, a front-row stroll through a cacophonous blender of Western art music. Or I could sit for multiple concerts a day, orchestra rehearsals, or dance recitals—all options, endless access to a space where time stops, where the gaps of silence between last notes and clapping hands are full and flowing. But the music is not the point, not necessarily the part that survives today. That which I’ve held on to is the proximity that I felt, the closing of a distance between passion and existence, I was able to live with what moved me and not as a casual partner; the connection was there to stay. This was a gift of that place, but not the only one.
Life happens collectively in small schools where student lounge becomes main drag, city square, saloon, and even flophouse. It was there that I met a girl, a soprano named Julie from a small village in upstate New York. Brown hair, gray-blue eyes, and real—no airs or affectation—honest, and beautiful. She was a year ahead but constantly appearing next to me. And I reciprocated, finding ways to forever bump into her. Casual turned to regular with notes, study dates, and endless pursuit. Whatever amount of time we spent together, it wasn’t enough.
Stories of life in different states and the exchange of histories led to talk of food, upbringing, and connections. And, if you spend that many moments together, you will eventually cook for each other, serving identities as the main course.
Perhaps predictable but at least consistent, the first card I played was the only one I held; black-eyed peas with cornmeal biscuits and molasses. It wasn’t a recipe I knew by heart. As I stirred dry ingredients and summoned guidance from below the Mason-Dixon Line, I felt my way through the process, turning the bowl, moving my hands in mock forms to imitate what I had seen, hoping the recipe on the container of cornmeal would produce a crunchy contrast to soft beans and bittersweet molasses. As we ate the ragged dropped forms, alternating with bites of beans from unmatched bowls, quiet settled. This wasn’t the first time that love was served on a baking sheet. Humans have always sat in circles, feeling the nourishment of fire, taking shelter from cold as food passed from mother to child, baker to stranger, or cook to company since the beginning of time. Each circle offers a chance to love anew, saying: Come, eat. In this spirit I made this simple meal, hoping she would accept these gifts of me, my edible history.