Midlife Meditation

(with apologies to U2) Christmas, 1985: the last time all the Anderson boys were simultaneously unmarried. I was going to start this essay with a picture of An-Di-Fan, the house in McMinnville that has been at the center of my family's identity since 1945, but which will (hopefully) soon be changing hands. We've had two family gatherings there--Thanksgiving and Christmas--since it went on the market, each of which could have been the last time we were all together under that roof. Unfortunately, the market for large craftsman homes in McMinnville is sluggish at this time of year, so there may yet be more potentially final gatherings of the House of An at the eponymous homestead. I changed my mind about using that picture--one that prominently features the "For Sale" sign that still gives me a jolt every time I drive up, and see it there in front of the house--because the house is not what I'm primarily writing about today, though it will still play ...

An-di-fan, soon to be someone else's house of tranquility. I never had a home town, but I always had this house. My grandmother moved into the house on Baker Street in 1945. She'd been widowed for a year, and had decided to return to McMinnville to teach at Linfield College, where her husband had been president in the 1930s. Now, at the age of 54 (my age now), and for the first time in her adult life, she needed a house that was not provided by my grandfather's employment. The house on Baker Street had been built forty years earlier, and had been the home of a botanist. It stood on a double lot, the huge back garden filled with mature flora that he had planted. It had, the realtor told her, a good hearth, and this was important to her as she entered this new phase of her life. She named it "An-di-fan," after the name she and my grandfather took as missionaries in Shanghai. It was something of a pun on our Swedish family name of "Anderson," a...

  Once upon the time there was an old farmer who had worked his crops for many years. One day his horse ran away. Upon hearing the news, his neighbors came to visit. “Such bad luck,” they said sympathetically. “Wait and see,” the farmer replied. The next morning the horse returned, bringing with it three other wild horses. “How wonderful,” the neighbors exclaimed. “Wait and see,” replied the old man. The following day, his son tried to ride one of the untamed horses, was thrown, and broke his leg. The neighbors again came to offer their sympathy on his misfortune. “Wait and see,” answered the farmer. The day after, military officials came to the village to draft young men into the army. Seeing that the son’s leg was broken, they passed him by. The neighbors congratulated the farmer on how well things had turned out. “Wait and see,” said the farmer. --Zen parable Across America, families will gather around tables laden with comfort food and share their gratitude for events ...