I think we must live in the bed and breakfast capitol of the world.
Honestly, though I can’t verify it, I believe there are more bed and breakfasts per capita in our city than any other in the country. Or maybe it just appears that way to me because there are B & B’s three, four, and five houses down the street from us. Because of this, we often see couples walking down our street, hand in hand, dressed in freshly pressed khakis, sporting brand new Tevas and Mephistos on their feet. They stroll down our sidewalk as they head from the B&B’s toward downtown, and as they pass our house, they smile and wave. I can’t help but think that part of their smiles come from their amusement that just down the street from these practically palatial, immaculately manicured, turn-of-the-century homes where they are resting and relaxing, sits our humble abode, complete with an overgrown lawn that is littered with bike pumps, scooters, and hula hoops.
The bed and breakfast down the street. Paradise?
One weekend not too long ago, as fresh spring breezes were blowing, flowers were blooming, and new spring leaves spread their dappled shade on the lawn, I sat on the porch with my oldest daughter. We sat side by side on the glider bench, swaying back and forth and watched as one couple after the next passed our home, smiling in anticipation of the day ahead. I sighed with envy, “Boy, the people who are vacationing in Asheville this weekend sure are lucky.”
My daughter looked at me as if I had just lost at least a couple marbles. “Mom,” she said with the patience you reserve for small children, “We’re in Asheville this weekend.”
Touché.
How often do we look around us and yearn for the very treasure that we have. We see happiness outside of ourselves and we long for it. We chase after it. We pursue it as if it were always just out of our grasp. We see it in other people and we wonder: is it their clothing? their beauty? their job? their location? their car? their house? Whatever it is, I WANT IT. I need it. I can’t be happy without it.
It calls to mind the story in the bible of Adam and Eve, who awaken to life in the Garden of Eden, a literal paradise where they dwell in the presence of the Divine and where every possible need is met effortlessly. And yet what they deeply desire is the one thing they are told they can’t have. That darned apple. Temptingly hovering just out of reach. Gazing at it, they forget that everything they require for happiness is right where they are. So certain are they that the key to their happiness is in that apple, that they risk everything they already have just to taste it. And they lose. According to the story, reaching for the apple is the end of paradise. And the beginning of suffering.
It was the same with me that day. Here I was in paradise. A beautiful spring day, sitting on the porch with my beautiful daughter whom I love beyond measure. Longing to be a visitor to the city that I live in.
There’s a punch line to the story:
After the couple had waved and passed us and we watched them recede down the street, my daughter said to me, “You know what they are probably saying? ‘Those people are so lucky to be living in this city that we only get to vacation in.’”
Touché.
