Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Regular readers know of my longing to go home. What does it say about me that I am supposed to be an adult, but that I don't have a fixed sense of home, or that I still want the one I had as a child?
It is raining this morning in New York. So far, it's a gentle rain and the sound reminds me of the kind of rain we get in California. It's a cozy, contemplative rain. If I could transport myself right now, it would be either to just north of San Francisco in Marin County, perhaps looking over the Golden Gate Bridge, or to a certain rock by the beach in the Carmel Meadows.
If I could just be in one of those two places, then I would feel that the world would be okay again, that it isn't futile to press forward. Sometimes my imagination takes hold when I feel this way and I actually start to imagine that I'm in the place I want to be. I suppose that would be considered unhealthy by some, but I find it helpful when I am locked in by geography. This morning I fooled myself into thinking I heard seagulls, and that I was up high on a hill with fog below. If I turned my head, I would see redwoods.