I finished Homer’s Odyssey for the umpteenth time on Saturday beneath a massive white oak at Oakland Cemetery. The last time had been a number of years, and I had forgotten a couple of details: the uproar the killing of the suitors caused in Ithaca, reuniting with his father Laertes, and the suitors’ shades meeting Agamemnon in Hades, which is actually quite funny.

The suitors did not get the sympathy they expected.

It had been an interesting 24 hours. The week left me really worn out, compelling me to evaluate the ways that I can end the week—land the plane, so to speak. And it also prompted me to consider a self-care practice that I’ve long enjoyed but seldom allowed.

Wanderlust—it feels indulgent.

My usual context for wanderlust is a foreign city—Paris, London, Athens, Rome—but it can include any place “foreign” to me. Seattle was a domestic experience. I’ve indulged myself in each of these cities because they offered once-in-a-not-so-often opportunities. And the plan is simple: follow my nose, read, journal, watch people—be present. There’s no other goal.

A black walnut snatched out of midair by clutching branches. It reminded me of a baseball player being robbed of a homerun by an incredible catch.

I’ve not considered the sacredness of this indulgence in a familiar space until this past weekend when a book Rae recommended to me suggested I try it. Rebecca Solnit’s treks along the California coast just outside San Francisco are so full of details, so filled with an awareness of the vegetation and history of the hills outside the Bay Area that I felt compelled to walk Iowa City and wherever else my nose would point me to see if I could experience the same kind of wonder I felt while reading her account. A hillside exploded with historical and botanical commentary on each page. She quotes extensively from Thoreau who at one point claims to encounter a completely different country if given a couple of hours.

I was persuaded. Could I experience the same thing?

Granted, Solnit researches thoroughly. Everything. And while I left with many more questions about what I was seeing and an overwhelming awareness of not knowing that there were questions I could be asking but didn’t know to ask, I also left thinking I needed and wanted to do this again. Wanderlust doesn’t need to wait until I’ve punched a passport.

Adding to the reading and wandering was the distinct filter that bell hooks is coloring my life with. the will to change is extending to me—I can hear it—the invitation to be among those men who deliberately challenges patriarchy and the version(s) of masculinity that have propped it up, supported it.

My favorite coniferous tree in Oakland Cemetery.

I have questions, though I agree with several of its main arguments. I’ll list two: (1) feminism, if it is to flourish and have its hoped-for effect, needs men; (2) patriarchy relies on the emotional self-mutilation of men. And there are others.

Men crave connection, but we are taught in very specific ways to isolate ourselves, to be emotionally unavailable to our partners so that we can control others.
Many women buy into and actively support patriarchy, not hesitating to participate in the emotional assault on men.

So, while I’m wandering about Iowa City and stopping to read or journal, thoughts swim of what it means to live freely within my masculinity and in support of feminism. I hope to see all people live with freedom.

Wanderlust

I’m a privileged asshole.