Queen of the Suburbs

The first week after I returned from India, I’d awaken from the casual unrest of jetlag and restless, pain-filled nights, startled awake by the silence.

In those murky moments between the sleep state and consciousness, when the eyes peer with heavy lids, trying to make sense of the shapes surrounding me, I was encouraging my brain to recall where I was, cheering it on to make sense of it all. And every time, it was the silence that confirmed that I was nestled firmly back in the suburbs of Seattle, Washington in the place I’ve called home for more than thirty years.

In Jayanagar, a suburb of Bangalore, my sleep would also be interrupted, not only by painful adjustments and attempts to quiet the throbbing in my knee and back, but also by the incessant blaring of horns.

One of my first nights in Bangalore, I remember thinking that the honking alone might make me deaf in no time! But, the beeping of taxis, buses, and impatient drivers told me the night was still going on, with or without me. While I fought my body for rest, the night was still alive in a way that is hard to describe unless you’ve experienced it.

Bangalore has nearly seven times the number of people per square mile as the suburb I live in. It’s an overload for the senses – the colors, sounds, clutter, chaos, conversations, unceasing movement. I went from a world that never sleeps to one that feels utterly pastoral by comparison.

At first, that stillness felt like relief. But then, I began to miss it. Not the noise and chaos but the closeness of others. The rich tapestry of humanity closing in around me. Building connection.

But this is not about elevating one city or even one culture above another. I have deep connections here, too.

Friends have brought me food, day after day.

They come to check on me and take me out for some fresh air.

People check in. They care.

Human beings around the world are not so very different.

Pain is pain.

Care is care.

Love is love.

Friendship is friendship.

Yet there are times when inexplicably people in Bangalore would quickly become a part of your everyday. Even those you don’t personally know become an important part of your world. The fruit vendor. The taxi driver. The doorman.

In the Pacific Northwest, that sense of connection feels thinner somehow. More fragile. It’s not that connection doesn’t exist. It’s that it has to be intentionally created. Chosen. Scheduled even.

How do I bring what I love about there… into the life I am living here?

I am home.

This is home.

Has been home for over three decades. But right now, it doesn’t feel completely like my home.

I’ve moved to a spare room on the ground floor to avoid the stairs. Doctor’s orders. Upstairs, my room opened onto a wide, inviting deck surrounded by a forest of evergreen trees. This one does not. It has no views. The window faces the side wall of the neighbor’s house, just three feet away. At first, it felt claustrophobic. Now I’m getting used to the smaller space. Even beginning to like the way everything is accessible and not too far away.

Thoughts arise. Not all of them are chosen.
I know how to work with them—by noticing, naming, and not following everyone.
It’s not about controlling every thought. It’s about what I do when it arrives—what I stay with. What lingers.

So, while where I am now is very different from where I was and where I have been before, each of these suburbs has a story to tell. And I’m here to listen.