“I live in Sicily as a foreigner, but I love this country More than any other. This is my home now, My true dwelling place.” –Ovid, Metamorphoses Bk V 572-557 (Lombardo tr.)*

Consider the diverse peoples who came together to form and defend Troy: Lykians, Aethiopians, Amazonians, et alia. At one time, and for one lucid moment, these people were united in a just and singular goal: defend home. Then imagine them scattered to the wind in the wake of their defeat. Many of the surivors–those not enslaved–followed Aeneas, forever stopping and starting in cities that would never be called home. Later, after his own women burned many of his ships, King Acestes of Sicily would take the less warlike and honor-driven people in, and for many, their journey ended there: et in Sicanis ego.

But the journey was not over for Aeneas; ever did the signs point to Latinum and War;  war, with a seven year long journey sandwiched between it and the Ten year long Trojan War before it. Twenty years of suffering–When ever do we find home? When ever do we, like Aeneas’ followers, become Romans? Is home our birthright, or do we, like poor Helenus and Andromache risk falling for pale illusion? Or like poor Polydorus and Palinurus, do we simply lack the fate or strength to make it home? Is home, perhaps, a little more difficult to attain than one might at first suspect?

When we came together; some from undergraduate colleges in the Southwest, others from the Northeast, others from being cooks in the south, and others from the deep colds of the Midwest, we were disparate and many. At St. John’s we became one. We were Johnnies, or put more correctly, we were GI’s. We were friends united in learning and transforming our natures and lives, substantially. But St. John’s is no end point, no telos. One must be-at-work-while-staying-at-self-and-then-go. The gates of ivory close; the cave must be returned to; the heights of the Empyrean precede the inevitable return to the mundane; Jacob’s or Plato’s ladder must be scaled down. One leaves through the gate of horn. We then multiply and become plentiful. But though we came as disparate people, did we leave as one people? Are we not now all Romans now, though once we were fallen Trojans of Phrygian, Thracian, Amazonian, or Near-Eastern stock? No, obviously not. A fallen Trojan does not a Roman make. Journeys, sufferings, losses, and war await one. St. John’s is a beautiful beginning, but a beginning all the same.

St. John’s offers a taste of home, but a taste, like the Lotus Eaters would attest, that one never can go without drinking from again. Just as Alcibiades was overcome by his desire to see within Socrates, to see his inner light, the light beyond the shadows of the cave—those inner depths sometimes called pristine heights, so must one afflicted by the gadfly which flits about plains less noble than Elyisum, restlessly, strive for Hyperborea beyond the clouds, or Rome beyond the Aegean sea. A distant point, hare-like in its elusiveness, the distance to which is only ever halved; Sicily may have to do. My lips are cracked, my breath dry. The air without is dry and arid. Where is home? The answer is so cruelly simple. Home must be built, not found. Such homes as exist ready made for others are denied you now, Brother Aaron.

I say this not to discourage, but like Teiresias in Homer’s underworld, or Anchises in Vergil’s, to counsel. To return home, or where once was home, like Agamemnon, expecting all as it was, is to invite severe misfortune. All is not as it seems, though once that was all one’s eyes could darkly see. One must now, with scales fallen out from eyes, mist parted, see that which is, and actually bring about what once could safely exist in hope alone.

My evenings at St. John’s involved pleasant conversation, thoughtful debate, and were often followed by giving Dionysos his due after Apollinian days. The Even-star fell on my days where happiness was equal during morning hours to those hours covered by Selene’s cool light. My nights now are largely solitary, and though my knowledge and wisdom daily increase, so does my loneliness and estrangement from those around me. I continue my work in isolation; I grow strong, my life’s work is happening, and yet I long for my former Troy, the company of my dear Creusa. My work continues. I strive onward hoping for Athene’s counsel; avoiding Poseidon’s wrath.

I miss my home. I know it does not exist; it must be founded at yet unknown costs. And yet still do I linger on un-spun thoughts, restless sentences dripping from worn-through keys. A barista, rude in tone, low in thoughts, calls me back to the mundane. Doesn’t she know from what heights she drags me down from? My fall is Luciferian. Pandemonium will not do. Only Rome. Such grasping hands belong not alone to baristas: the ignoble belly. I hold a lowly steward’s grip on Agamemnon’s weathered staff—molding youth, expressing knowledge, transmitting culture. All are excaliburs of thought. What gives me happiness and long-lingering hope causes pain all the same. I have never been without this feeling. Is this what the Pious son of Venus and swift-footed Peleion felt with goddess mothers? Such simple and short-enduring pride, exaggerated with filial love when they were present, followed by such keen pain at their eternal and inevitable passing by?

To reach a crescendo, Ovid’s Tristia comes to mind:

“When the saddest image of that night recurs which was for me the final moment in the city, when I recall the night in which I left behind so much dear to me, a tear now also glides from my eyes. Now the day was nearly at hand in which Caesar had ordered me to depart from the bounds of farthest Ausonia.”

But this is no elegy; it is the beginning of an epic. Suffering and nostalgia for what is lost is not this life’s major theme. Suffering is but hand-maiden, constant companion to something greater.

All this goes to show the layers with which life and fate conspire to confound and confront one. I am, perhaps arguably, a success in terms of the thinking of St. John’s, though I once declared its program a failure (in terms of finding one opportunities to share one’s acquired wisdom for a wage). Two years after graduating I am responsible for developing four years of Great Books course-work in a Charter school system—truly avant garde–not having accepted what was already laid down. Many of my fellows chose Carthage or Buthrotum, burning their ships, but I, possibly with the love of some Venus or Minerva, sailed on, ever in search of Lavinia, which I must build.

This is the life I wish to live. This is the life the moirai set out for me. And yet, like Aeneas, I was not warned by Helenus nor Celaeno of the sorrows I would face. Perhaps, though, I was? A life of meaning is not at all times happy. I feel the nagging sorrow, the tristia, and loneliness of those who travel West, those who approach the great Ocean’s border, and I am as of yet still unsure how to fill this void. I long for meaningful company and conversation, and I require more and more the farther I progress. I know these are the long days of struggle on the sea, but clarity can be difficult as the Dog-Star rises on the horizon, or the Sun sets in Capricorn, causing fear to all sailors braving the wine-dark sea.

*Written for all those who once knew home at St. John’s or some other brief Eden and are now on their nostos, wherever that may be.

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