Many, many years ago, the father of a dear friend told me, “You know, Becca, you need to make sure it’s the right person in the right place at the right time.” I don’t remember the context, but I remember being in the kitchen at the family’s home, one of those wonderful places that never seems to change, no matter how many years go by. I’ve forgotten everything else about that moment, but I’ve always held onto those words.
That’s what was in my mind when I received a call full of uncertainty and doubt. And after listening and affirming what I’d heard, that’s what informed my response. The voice on the other end remained doubtful and uncertain but sounded a little less torn, a little less fraught.
After hanging up, I thought about what I’d felt in my body while we talked; you’d told me what you were feeling in yours. The equanimity I had experienced and continued to experience assured me that I’d given the most honest answer I could, and I believe you heard that.
I hope your mind quieted and that you slept softly. To look around, consider whether the circumstances are right, and make a choice can be scary – and that’s how we know it’s important.
Whenever I dream of “home” I dream of the old house, specifically the kitchen, which was always my favourite room.
I remember the walls yellow and later orange-red, the cherry wood table and matching chairs stained with a blue accent that I knew was beautiful long before I was old enough to develop taste in furniture. I wonder if there are still math problems visible on the soft wood when the sun shines just right. I wonder if they can still be felt when you rub your finger along a seemingly smooth surface. It was always bright in the kitchen, even when it was dark outside, and I remember the upheaval of removing one pantry to build a desk and replacing the floor that children and toys had long treated too harshly.
The kitchen was the geographic centre of the old house, the first room you saw from the front door, and the first room you entered after bursting through the mudroom door in playclothes, smelling of sun and sweat or peeling off layers of snowpants and gloves. We did our homework at the kitchen table, ate dinner as a family, played board games, sat around to share the worst news and the best news. Almost every photo that we have from a birthday or holiday was taken in the kitchen. Every gathering with friends and extended family started and ended in the kitchen.
We always had a radio there and we listened to talk radio in the morning and music in the afternoon. Sometimes the bird was out on the island when we got home from school, and late in the evenings, the dog turned the island into a race track. The kitchen was the part of the house we lived in, and it’s the room I picture when I think about growing up.
I don’t remember much from my dream last night, but I was back in the old house, back in the old kitchen. I haven’t been inside since I moved to Malaysia nine years ago, shortly after which my parents sold the house and moved across town. I drove by once and soon I’ll drive by again to show it to someone who has only seen it through Street View on Google Maps. The photo there is of a house where I still lived, the car in the driveway not yet my brother’s. I wonder what it looks like now. I wonder what parts of it are best-loved now.
The kitchen is the room I always want to see when I visit a home for the first time. That’s the room I want to be in, the room where I feel most invited and most comfortable. Guests are shown first to other spaces, but kitchen parties are always the best parties. Time in someone’s kitchen is intimate, cozy, personal, and I think there’s some love there, too. It’s in the kitchen where we work alongside one another, where we see what’s not so tidy, where we take raw ingredients and make them into something magical.
It’s no surprise that the kitchen in my parents’ “new” house is the room I’ve spent the most time, the room I like best. It’s the first room you see from the side door, which is the only door they use, and it’s the room that contains the daily traces of people – reading materials left on the counter, coffee cups out ready for use, recipes tucked under the fruit bowl.
Last night I dreamed of the old house, which is always the case when I dream of “home”. My dream started and ended in the kitchen, and as always, it took me right back.
When I moved to New York City, a friend who had been living there for some time told me that the key to enjoying New York is to say yes to things. “This is how you meet people,” she said. “This is how you learn how to do New York.”
The problem was that I was living in New York at a time in my life when it was a victory to do the simple things, like go for a walk, leave the apartment in the rain, or smile at someone in a coffee shop. It was a time when I didn’t want to be in my own company, much less impose it on someone else.
(For what it’s worth, I said yes to a few things and that was hard to do. But I was always, always glad that I’d done it.)
This was on my mind a week ago when a friend asked if I was interested in attending a party hosted by someone I have spent time with, though wouldn’t yet call a friend. I said yes because I knew that yes was the answer. And as I answered, I also knew that the real answer was NO in glowing red letters, and that the NO told me something interesting – but was wrong. I had no good reason to say no and much better reasons to say yes even if the gut instinct was no. So I said yes.
And in saying yes, I worked myself up to look forward to the opportunity. When the question later came up of whether I wanted to join my friends in spending the night camping in a converted VW bus beloved in my friend group, I also said yes. (It’s a good thing we’re having a heatwave.) It didn’t take long to grow excited about this, too.
There’s a lot to be said for listening to yourself, for listening to that little voice screaming NO. It knows some things. But this experience made me think about times when the right thing to do is to close the lid on the voice and let the rational part of the brain (Tversky and Kahneman’s logical system 2 rather than intuitive system 1) do the talking. Understanding the choice I made and why I made it while acknowledging what the little voice wanted me to know may sound like a contradiction, but is not. Rather, taking the time to listen to the gut response allowed me to quiet it down and put it to rest and then embrace the decision I had made.
I like trying new things and the only way to do that is to say yes when the opportunities arise. There are certainly times when a resounding no is appropriate, unquestioned, and the right answer. But there are also times when there’s no good reason for the no, and that means the no can become yes. In the end, at least I know I’ve tried and with all the possibilities life has to offer, I can’t do more than that.
And it’s true what they say – you don’t know until you try, and you have to say yes if you’re going to try.
Arco, Italy – April 2022
Photos, travels, musings, and ideas on education by someone trying to make the world a better and more peaceful place
By Rebecca Michelle 