Back in 1990, I left New York City, having finished paying off student loans and achieved an associate's degree in illustration from Parsons School of Design. I spent several months at Pendle Hill Quaker Study Center at this crossroads and, having re-examined the whole English church music thing (still all male), I realized that I was probably going to spend the rest of my life in the U.S., so I had better darned well get to know the country. I bought a small red used car, and spent the better part of the summer meandering around from state to state, staying with family and friends and, basically, following my gut. By late September/early October, I had made my way back around as far as Minnesota, and at a Quaker gathering, I met someone who invited me to visit Duluth. This seemed rather hilarious to east coast me, but I decided to do it.
I'll never forget, driving up 35 and cresting the hill near Proctor and looking down at the enormity of Lake Superior with the cities of Duluth and Superior tucked at its edge. The highway wends its way down a fairly steep hill, and toward the bottom -- not knowing anything but having a good instinct for destinations -- I followed signs to the Aerial Lift Bridge and Park Point, which turned out to be a spit of land sticking out into the end of the lake. The road took me several miles through mixed housing and sand to a parking lot at the end, where I turned off my car and burst into tears. I just basically asked God, what in the Sam Hill am I doing here of all places?
A day or two later, Sunday the seventh of October, I attended the local Quaker meeting, where I met some friends who are still among my dearest to this day, and I decided to at least spend the winter in Duluth. When I called my parents to tell them, there was dead silence at the other end of the phone, followed by, "Well can you at least get the New York Times there?" At that moment in history, the answer was no.
With the exception of a year or so in the middle of the decade, I would spend most of the rest of the '90s in Duluth. I loved it there. It is one of the most extraordinarily beautiful places on this earth. My east coast-England-y resume being what it was, I couldn't find a "real" job to save my life, so over the course of my time there, I worked at a toy shop, a stationery shop, a candy shop, Duluth's coolest restaurant, and as a "community visioning aide." I had many beautiful friends. I took up rowing, and practiced when the moon was going down and the sun was coming up. I drove up and down the North Shore. I got frostbite. I lived on Park Point, and woke up every morning to the sometimes turbulent sight of an inland sea. I saw northern lights multiple times. I painted the lake and its mind-boggling horizon line. I experienced weeks at a stretch at below zero degrees F. I used to think I should create a tee shirt that said, "Most people go to Nepal or Tibet for enlightenment. I went to Duluth."
In 1999, I returned east permanently due to my mother's illness. It would take another ten years to remember my passion for English church music, but I suspect I wouldn't ever have done so in Duluth. As several friends have pointed out, it was about as far from that civilized world as is humanly possible. But it was like the dreamtime. I think the Great Mother held me in her arms near that great lake, kept me safe, and opened my eyes to wonder.
