Moments Like These: Beyond the View

3/13/08

By Trish Pennypacker
Critic Columnist

The September I turned 13, the leaves changed rapidly from golden to brown. Buried under pungent mounds, the last blossoms of summer went unnoticed as my family and I moved the few boxes of our belongings into a rundown rental house. With most of our possessions already given to those “less fortunate” than us (though at the time I doubted anyone else could be less fortunate) the almost bare rooms of the rental house echoed with every word, every step; and the sprawling yard with its apple trees, pond, and beloved hammock, slung low beneath the birch trees, had been traded for a sorry strip of brown grass, two garbage cans, a disintegrating wood pile, a rusty propane tank and a view of the neighbor’s clothesline, underwear and all. My large, sunny yellow bedroom with the un-tuned but joyful piano and overcrowded bookcase had been replaced by a small room under the eves, faded and peeling rose printed wall-paper, drafty floor boards, and a scuffed up nightstand to place my Bible on. And in the crummy confines of that dreary bedroom, my face pressed to the cold window, I watched the sun rise and set; my eyes seeing, but not really understanding the glimpses of community that shuffled below.

Every morning, about seven o’clock, with the sun barely filtering through tree branches, I’d hear kids lining up for the school bus. By ten o’clock, my neighbor would walk by with his limping Bassett Hound, followed by a teenager and her child. They were going to the post office, which I could see from my window if I cranked my neck far enough. In and out of the doors people went, chattering and laughing as they flipped through the daily mail. Sometimes it was enough to watch these people from my small window, but other times, I felt isolated.

I never accepted my father’s idea that to save the world we must separate from the world. Everything that has made any difference in my life includes people. I used to ask my father why, if Jesus came to save the world and lived among men, we had to live in isolation? My questions only frustrated my father. I blamed my father for my sense of isolation until books began to fill my void. In books, I lived vicariously, learning about how human life grows and thrives in communities.

Now that I have a daughter, I understand what it feels like to not have answers. Her questions, layered upon everything, grow more complex by day and I’m not always sure how to respond. Sometimes, in my own frustration, I find myself imitating my father’s famous “just because.” This is never the right answer. “Just because” leads to indifference and the mass of people who don’t really care. “Just because” breaks down communities: “Just because they are homeless, doesn’t mean we need to house them in this neighborhood.” But it is just because of that dark, early adolescent year, in the isolation of that dingy bedroom, staring helplessly at the world below, that I am now able to see beyond the view of the post office.

Community is important, but the individual sense of what makes a community is selfish. Do we include teenage mothers, the disabled, and those with opposing points of view, or do we just consider those that will bring a stronger financial and ethical boost to the town? It’s amazing what we take for face value. I now realize that the same sweet old man that used to walk his dog by my window could possibly have hated the idea that a teenage mother lived next door to him. He could also have been against the programs that kept her on her feet. He could have easily believed she should “get what she deserves.” But what does she, or anyone else, deserve?

In months like these when the cold has spread deep through the hills and tree branches are brittle and bare, the darkness seems relentless. As Barry Lopez says, “Winter darkness shuts off the far view. The cold drives you deep into your clothing, muscles you back into your home. Even the mind retreats back into itself.” But to watch life pass by, with no care beyond the present view, means that nothing beyond us matters, everything is “just because”, and acts of human kindness are not enough to create a positive change in the world. That is not the life I wish to lead. I spent the dark season of my youth retreating; I am ready now for the coming light of spring.