On Going Home by Bibi Deitz

On Going Home 
by Bibi Deitz

My mother lives one hour from New York City, where I live and where I was born. She lived in the city for 20 years, the last 12 of which were with me — in the East Village and on the Lower East Side, then in Windsor Terrace and Greenpoint in Brooklyn. And then she moved (along with my brother and me) to New Jersey. And there she has stayed, while I’ve followed a scattered trajectory (Vermont, Colorado, New Mexico, for a hot minute the South of France). 

When I moved back to the city a year and a half ago after living in Santa Fe for seven years, my mother and I were so excited: Now I would live an hour’s bus ride away. I made my prodigal-daughter return, but with a twist: It’s rare that I see my mother more than once a month. Sometimes a couple of months sidle by without any face-to-face contact (save an errant FaceTime or two while walking down the street, perhaps). 
I think there are several reasons for this. First, I have settled in Brooklyn, which is actually two hours from the New Jersey town in which my mother lives. The bus takes an hour (on a good day, without any traffic), but the train from Brooklyn to Port Authority Bus Terminal doubles the commute. 

Also there is something daunting about “going home,” though I have always considered New York my home more than New Jersey. I lived in New Jersey on and off for 11 years, between the ages of 12 and 23. Those years were fine, but I’ve always had a bit of a grudge against the state: It ripped me away from my beloved New York. I returned for dance class every weekend; but still. I found it profoundly unfair that I had been relegated to New Jersey, a place I saw as vastly inferior to my home state from a young age. 

And then there is the consideration of family itself. I love my mother beyond measure. She’s amazing, more of a friend than a mom at this point. We talk or text nearly every day. But family has an intense element to it. As much as I miss my mother when she’s not by my side, I also like to be on my own turf. She recently visited my new apartment in Brooklyn for a few nights, which was wonderful. But the mix of being in the house where I felt so stifled as a teen, being with family and being in this tiny rural New Jersey town where I never felt at home can be difficult. 

Finally, there’s this esoteric quality to New Jersey: I can’t quite articulate it, but when I am there I feel different from when I am just about anywhere else. I blame this not on family or memories but the state itself: I simply don’t like it there. Blame it on its aura or whatever. 

I know this feeling is not related to my family because I don’t feel it when my mother visits me. Quite the opposite: When my mother was in my cozy new home last week she brought so much joy, showering me with gifts for the house and hanging out while I wrote in the afternoons. Her presence across the table at my favorite café or across the room in my living room while I wrote was lovely: comforting, cheerful. 

Recently I planned to take the journey to have a sleepover at my mother’s and attend a rummage sale in the morning. It’s not any old tag sale: a conglomeration of tents occupy a grassy lot the size of a football field and I always find the best vintage furniture and clothes. I planned to hold my breath, trek to the bus station after work and dive in. 

There is some menace to that liminal space through which I pass as I sail along Interstate 78 on the bus toward home, or one iteration thereof. It’s never felt like home, and it will likely never be home again, but at one time it was home. Plus, the location where one’s immediate family lives often holds a connotation of “home,” no matter if it really is one’s place of residence or not. That menace is based in a feeling of not-knowing. There are so many unknowns, from the possibility of getting stuck in traffic (NBD but infuriating) to the possibility of getting into an argument with my mother or brother (hasn’t happened in a long time, but the threat remains) to the possibility of falling into a depression (again, it’s been a minute, but New Jersey still holds the perhaps-promise of a state of doom and gloom). 

I didn’t wind up going home the other day. It wasn’t only the trip, the rigamarole of going to the bus station and waiting on line and sitting in an itchy seat next to a person who would probably be doing something annoying. It was also pouring and I’d had a stressful day and I wanted to go home and make butternut squash lasagne and curl up with a book. So that’s what I did. 

The nice thing is that my mother is the most understanding mother in the world. She was actually congratulatory when I called to tell her the news: That’s great, she said. The rummage sale is going to be insanely muddy anyway, so good on you. 

I can’t say when next I’ll go home, or “home,” as home these days is at my excessively comfy spot in Brooklyn. I’ll see my mother next week, when she brings another load of furniture to me. And perhaps that’s the way it’ll mostly be for now: She’ll come here, and I’ll be happy to have her. She misses New York and loves having a reason to drop by.

I’ll go back to New Jersey, of course. I love my mother, and I know how much my visits mean — to her and to me. There is much to be said for seeing family regardless of the emotions it brings up, or even in celebration of those emotions. Family always makes me think of what Owen Wilson says in Wes Anderson’s The Darjeeling Limited: “I want us to be completely open,” he tells his brothers, “and say yes to everything, even if it’s shocking and painful.” Indeed. 

Bibi Deitz is a writer, editor and native New Yorker. She holds an MFA in fiction writing from Bennington College and lives in Brooklyn. Recent work has appeared in Marie Claire, Teen Vogue, The Huffington Post, Bustle, Vice, Bookforum, The Rumpus, Berfrois and BOMB.

Good-bye to Wildacres

My daughter Isabel and I had a wonderful week in a cabin in the mountains of north Carolina–so lush compared to New Mexico.



It is sad to leave–as we had may blissful hours of creative process–writing, marbling paper and fabric, embroidery, photographing, and collaging.


We got a bit of a proto-type for a piece of paper sculpture with text–lots of work ahead.


And of course it is always nice to go home.


to shape mountains and canyons
water must grind
going somewhere lower
to whatever the eon’s
sea level

in suminagashi
the basin of water
must remain perfectly still
disturbed only
by the artist’s breath
like a garden pond
rippled by golden carp
or the mind.

Poem Miriam Sagan
Photographs Isabel Winson-Sagan

Call for Tanka

Call for Contributions: Exemplary Tanka of Our Time (article)

I am working on an article for a future issue of Atlas Poetica : A Journal of World Tanka on the topic of ‘Exemplary Tanka of Our Time.’ I am seeking contributions from readers regarding tanka poems they find exemplary and were written and published during our lifetimes. These tanka cannot be your own work, but must be the work of another poet. You must include the poet’s name and a proper citation for where you found the poem. (MLA format preferred.)

Contributions must be accompanied by commentary explaining why you find the poem exemplary. You may focus on a particular detail, such as alliteration, or a more general approach, such as discussing how the imagery evokes a particular mood, but the goal is to provide information that helps readers and poets better understand the craft. In other words, the sort of constructive feedback given in a workshop, not mere compliments, is what is sought here.

For those who are concerned about copyright, US copyright law permits “fair use” and fair use is explicitly defined to include discussion and analysis of literary works, which is exactly what we are doing.

You may submit up to three tanka/kyoka/gogyoshi/gogyohka with commentary not to exceed 300 words. Comments may be used in whole or in part. Your commentary, if accepted, will include a byline. All poems will be credited to their poets and previous place of publication.

I’m not sure what kind of response I will receive, so I don’t know how many I will be accepting. “Enough to make an article” is the best I can say. Deadline is December 15, 2015.

Send submissions to: AtlasPoetica (at) gmail (dot) com with the subject line “Example: your name”. This will help me sort them from the usual submissions to the journal.

M. Kei
Editor, Atlas Poetica : A Journal of World Tanka

Photographs Isabel Winson-Sagan, Text Miriam Sagan


everywhere leaves fall, everywhere
like 10,000 myriad things
and one carmine maple leaf
it falls like nothing else, but itself


Haiga from Wildacres, NC by Miriam Sagan & Isabel Winson-Sagan


When Sumnagashi Falls

From where it is drying on the window pane it makes a swooshing sound that startles me…






Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 931 other followers