Change of scenery, change of venue, diaper change, change of heart, change of mind, winds of change, seeds of change, loose change, spare change, chump change, sea change, all change, ch ch ch ch changes, the more things change the more they stay the same, the times they are a-changing.
Delta, the fourth letter of the Greek alphabet, written simply as a triangle in its uppercase form, is one of the only things I recall from the three calculus classes through which I suffered in high school, college, and business school. Such a simple, elegant symbol for such a charged concept: change.
Philosophers and artists have opined on the subject for millennia: Heraclitus deemed it “the only constant in life” in the sixth century BCE. Chaucer warned against change’s antithesis when he claimed that “familiarity breeds contempt,” in one of his 1300s tales. And David Bowie urged us to “turn and face the strange,” in 1972.
Our reaction to change depends on temperament, current state of mind, risk tolerance, and importantly, on the nature of the change itself: Voluntary or imposed? Minor or major? Within or out of our control? As with most things, how we react and respond to change is all about balance.
I see-saw between craving the warm quilt comfort of the routine and the familiar and the titillating jolt of the new and unexpected. Too much of the former and I sink into a molasses morass. Too much of the latter and my circuit board overloads and fuses begin to blow.
Recently, I’ve developed a new routine that, ironically, provides me with a great deal of change, and gives me a real-time experiment in the impact of variation. I find myself in a British petri dish of change that allows me to observe me with scientific curiosity. During the height of COVID-19, in what now seems like either a moment of sheer brilliance and/or pandemic-induced madness, I purchased a petit-four-sized flat in a red brick, clock towered building in Stratford Upon Avon. It sits, with its age >60 denizens, just down from the train station, and just up from the home in which Shakespeare was born.
When I returned home after studying there for a year in 2017 (in itself a seismic change), I felt like Tony Bennett crooning about leaving his heart in San Francisco. But it wasn’t the Golden Gate Bridge or the cable cars that tugged at me, but the West Midlands and Shakespeare’s homeland.
After my third trip back to the now mostly set up flat (dealing with utilities, deliveries, and contractors in another country is a particularly challenging type of change) I reflect on why I usually feel as calm as the rolling Cotswolds Hills that surround me when I’m there.
The mechanics of the change of venue are unappetizing. Logistics, lines, and the hassles of post-pandemic air travel roil me: traffic on I-95 and the Merritt; multitudes of unprepared people hastily removing shoes and tossing the now taboo peanut butter into big bins under the watchful TSA agents’ eyes; regimented queueing for boarding and stowage of handheld luggage. The fraught maze of this physical aspect of the change frazzles me.
But Being There (ala Jerzey Kozinski) - or here - is a change that quells me instantaneously. I get the irony of the intense familiarity of this place adding to the value of the change to this location. I feel as settled and home here as if it were home.
In part, it’s the distance that makes this particular change a balm. None of the thorns of daily living in Connecticut necessarily disappear when I’m in SUA, but the breadth and depth of the “pond” between me and them brings a perspective that allows me to respond with more patience and magnanimity and less angst and worry than I do at home. Back in 06880, the proximity is like poison ivy’s irritant urushiol. It gets to me more quickly and more severely. The time difference and space between me and any issues that this change creates acts like both a barrier and a soothing Ivy-X-like balm.
Also, my home away from home is both familiar and just different enough to keep me fully engaged. I understand the language perfectly, but every new lilt makes my ears perk up like a curious rabbit’s. The pubs may serve similar alcohol to bars at home, but they are culturally light years apart (in the best of ways). I still eat yogurt for breakfast, but it tastes somehow fresher and more local, and I mix in Swiss muesli, unlike any I can find in the States.
Inside/Outside
But then there are changes that take place mostly inside; invisible to the outside world. Age might deliver these: my turkey neck, array of new aches and pains, the inability to recall names and words once on the tip of my tongue. Or, age might deliver these: wisdom, patience, and perspective that young whipper-snappers lack. Time can change wine to something fine, or to vinegar.
Maybe change comes in the guise of the loss of friends or loved ones. Loud construction noise outside one’s normally refuge-like home. The closing of a favorite store or restaurant. Changes like these that might blindside us or gently nudge us into a slightly different routine have in common that we might not have invited them in, but rather they have stuck a toe in an ajar door, or simply barged their way in like battering rams. How do we deal with change that we don’t choose?
For me, it’s often with trepidation and anxiety. I prefer the routine, the expected, the planned - unless I have actively chosen curiosity-stimulating novelty. Some people are particularly good at “pivoting”: I am not one of them. Yet, while age may have dragged my neck down into an ungainly shape and made me forget some relatively rudimentary words, it has also allowed me (with some effort and fits and starts) to cultivate a measure of equanimity.
En route back from England, I arrived at Heathrow unnecessarily — and, some would say, insanely — early: 8:45 a.m. for a 1:00 p.m. flight. In addition to my normal neuroses, the Heathrow security workers had announced a planned strike, so it seemed even more prudent to allow a stretched-taffy amount of preflight arrival time.
I had, of course, checked in on line precisely 24 hours prior to ETD and checked my big purple rolling duffle. I strode with smug confidence to the United representative.
“Good morning! I just need to drop my bag,” and showed him my digital boarding pass.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, that flight has been canceled.”
I stared at him, agape, waiting for him to say, “Just kidding! April Fools!” but he remained stoic.
“Please go to that counter over there,” He pointed somewhere vaguely over my now slumping shoulder. “They will help you rebook.”
Ten years ago I would have crumpled and cried, traveling nonstop to the worst-case scenario station. Instead, I took a deep breath, actually thanked him, and followed his fingertip to the frazzled-looking customer service representative. In the short line I reminded myself that I’d get home eventually, that I had no control over United Airlines’ Boeing 737 (much to my dismay), and that there was not a thing I could do besides what I was doing.
“Good morning. How are you?” I asked the unhappy customer service representative.
“Busy. OK. It’ll be a long day with the cancellation.”
“Well, I appreciate your help,” my sagging neck and I told him.
Within moments he had situated me on a 10:00 a.m. flight. It was now 9:00 a.m. Yay for outrageously early airport arrival times.
“Thank you,” I gushed.
“You’re quite welcome. Now, go check your bag because I can’t do that, and then run. Don’t walk. I mean run.”
“Run,” said the woman who checked my bag and reissued my boarding pass.
“Run,” said the security guard who ushered me to the front of the screening line.
“Relax,” said the agent at gate B31, situated approximately 93 miles from where I’d started running, according to my hyperventilating lungs and burning leg muscles. “Are you ok?” I think she thought she’d soon need to administer CPR to this aging, out-of-breath woman covered in a glistening sheen of perspiration, eyes wide, hands shaking just slightly, knees ready to buckle. “We’ve only just started boarding. Just scan your passport and boarding card and go ahead on. Have a good, safe journey.”
I was decidedly not relaxed, but nor was I completely freaked out. Just wildly aware of the deficit between my perception of what kind of shape I’m in and my actual level of physical conditioning. The flight attendant offered me a stemless glass of something sparkling as I settled into my seat overwhelmed with relief and gratitude. It might have been near 10:00 a.m. in London, but it was near 5:00 p.m. somewhere, and that was a socially acceptable time for imbibing. I sat back, looked at the movie and lunch menus, and patted myself on the back for not freaking out and melting down.
I pretended I had a window to look through (quick rebooking does come with some downsides) and mused that change needn’t always be terrifying, and can sometimes be titillating. Maybe I could run toward, instead of away from it. Perspective, Diane. Perspective.
I very much enjoyed this and I could hear your voice in every word 💛🙏