“Stop trying to make everyone happy…

…you’re not ___.”

I’m reminding myself I’m a farm boy born and was raised through my formative years on hop farms both in Toppenish, Washington on the Yakama Indian Reservation, and on acreage my Dad ended up owning and leasing in Moxee, Washington. For those who “were born on a farm,” they know they get to claim that title in perpetuity. Although I live in a suburb north of Seattle, I still am a farm boy even as I have ended a 33+ year career as a public school educator and administrator.

The homestead of my early years in Toppenish off of Fort Road and my dad tending to his crop behind our Moxee home.

Looking at those pictures, and remembering these were golden times prior to cell phones, social media, and the soon-to-be destruction of the United States presidency (though very young, the two presidents I would have grown up with in Toppenish were Nixon and Carter—the former tried to destroy the presidency himself while the latter was likely one of our most moral leaders), you can imagine, cuz it wouldn’t take much, the wide expanse of silence, solitude, hard work, and outdoor play and mischief a boy and his brother involved themselves in. Farm life, certainly back then, less so nowadays as farming has gone corporate, had a grand symphonic rhythm to it—slow introductory notes (planting, prepping season), a build up of tonal tension (plant growth, summer storms), jubilant crescendos (harvest), and the fading notes of resolution and silence (winter rest). My dad was our primary conductor of this agricultural orchestral symphony.

Juxtapose that idyllic imagery of my lived young life with where I am right now as I write these words. From that young farm boy’s perspective, I’m in a different world.

“We have just one world, but we live in different ones.” ~ Mark Knopfler (Brothers In Arms)

For I think the fourth time in my life, all four trips within the last decade, I’m in New York City baby!!! It surprises me every time I’m here how much I enjoy this place—a truly foreign land for the uninitiated let alone a farm boy from rural Washington State.

Whereas we had to manufacture stimulation through our imaginative play while living a farming life, here in NYC, it’s nothing but stimulation—at full crescendo most of the time. It’s true this glorious city of lights—and electricity, and traffic, and horns, and sirens, and smells of most kinds, and Broadway musicals, and serious-looking pedestrians each on their own unique mind-missions (aka New Yorkers—who, btw, I’ve always experienced as super friendly!), and bagels, and skyscrapers, and Central Park, and subways—NEVER sleeps. It doesn’t matter daylight or not, the vibes in this city, though feeling different over the course of a 24 hour period, still vibrate. To sit in the stands in Times Square is a marvel during the day as people move purposefully toward whatever place or role they happen to be moving toward; at night it’s a truly electrifying experience of movement and sound and color on the grandest of electrical light and screen scales under a black canvas of night sky.

Each of the four trips I’ve made to NYC, I’ve thought about that farm boy; I know for certain he never thought he’d visit (or care to) New York City, let alone come to love it. But, here I am again.

“Stop trying to make everyone happy; you’re not beer.”

(Written on a chalk sidewalk sign just west of Time Square outside a pub. When I saw this, I thought of dad which turned me back into a farm boy from Toppenish—I walked back to the hotel with a smile on my face, in amazement and wonder again of where I was and where I’ve been. My dad, btw, would not have appreciated New York at all—despite its beer drinkers.)

Wednesday, we got to ride the subway up to Harlem, entering into Central Park from its Northwest corner (hadn’t been there yet), and walked in the downtown direction (southward for non-New Yorkers) through the park to get our steps in—walking “The Park” is an all-time fave and must-do for my wife and me. We rewarded ourselves with bagels—mine vegan, thank you (Whole Wheat Everything with tofu/scallion cream cheese if you are keeping track—and I know you are).

Thursday we tracked on foot through Times Square to get tickets to the Broadway play “Harry Potter and the Cursed Child.” We are told it is excellent but as I’m writing this before we see it, we’re going to have to take their word for it. It’s kinda an obligation to see at least one Broadway show per visit to New York—if for no other reason but to say you did. But, the shows we’ve seen have all been great. We did a walk-by the “Christmas Tree” at Rockefeller Plaza—the famous one we didn’t go to actually see the official lighting of last night. (I love most New Yorkers but not hundreds of thousands en masse packed inside of Rockefeller Plaza all at once—with no chairs or restrooms in sight.) Then to the famous Macy’s Christmas windows. Just to say we did.

Rockefeller Plaza and our night time view from our room.

This city is definitely alive. But in such a different way from the places in which I grew up. When you get right down to true differences, the ones that matter most, this environment here is virtually 100% synthetic—all “man” made. Yes, they have Central Park and many smaller parks scattered throughout, but with the “in your face” stimulation of concrete, metal, cars and cars honking, noise, and the sea of humanity (love as I do simply the people-watching aspect of this place), I can feel the difference in my nervous system from when I’m in my home and from the two homes I associate the most with my growing up years. And you cannot get away from realizing the stark reality of the vast differences between those who live “with privilege” and those who work hard to simply make all their ends meet. And also those who cannot even do that and must rely upon the generosity of others as they worry about when they’ll eat next and where they will get to sleep tonight. In this way, New York City can also break your heart.

So even though I continually surprise myself by loving this particular big city, I wouldn’t want to ever, ever live here. When traveling, if one is mindful of place and people, the experience can give you a whole new appreciation for the place(s) you come from—which is sometimes a place we take for granted. I love my home and the places I grew up—they are my sanctuary. Every day I am grateful for the place I live—and the way I live in it. I’m looking forward to getting back home.

New York City has spirit, of that there is no doubt.

But my home has Soul.

---

Live, Laugh, and Love—with Clear Eyes and Full Hearts,

Always and Ubuntu,

~ kert

And with Ahimsa!

🙏🏼

(BTW: the play was excellent!)

Postscript:

Central Park has a program where people can sponsor a bench—thousands of benches are spread throughout the park most with these little metal signs on their backrests. I try to read a few every time I’m in the Park to bear witness to whomever had the humble generosity of heart to dedicate a place for respite. This one, I think, was meant for me to find.

“Go out and live your lives then bring them back here to me. You talk so I can listen.”

I thought of my Dad again. When I’m back in a place where I know his soul resides, I’ll tell him all about New York. He’ll ask if they drink beer here.

Yes dad, they do.

And you’ve made them happy.