I was driving home and listening to Cat Stevens sing "If You Want to Sing Out, Sing Out." A majestic white plane swooped lower in the dusty twilight sky, flying parallel to my old van. And in a moment of brilliance, it flew right over the rising moon. I love when the sky is still blue, the sun is still in sight, and the moon makes its appearance early: a dashing surprise entrance. For a reason unknown to me, that plane right in line with the moon, with the voice of my old friend Cat so familiar and dear in my ear and the rosy light of the Southern California sunset, made my heart leap in my chest.
Returning home is good for a simple reason: it reminds me of the person I have always been. Sitting with Ellen and Bobby drinking milkshakes at Ruby's today, watching the waves rise and fall, feeling the warm sun on my cheek against the windowsill that peers right out on the Pacific Ocean, I could have been eighteen again in a heartbeat. Catching up with Teri and Kristen and Cara at an art show in Santa Ana last night was not so different from all those Mater Dei art shows eight or so years ago.
I feel known here. For the child I once was: quiet, bookish, strange, but altogether good. For the teenager I grew into: taken with an idea of peace (that came more from folk songs and hippies as seen on iconic television shows from Nick at Nite rather than any real-life experience), tucking flowers behind my ear, and making mixed tapes on my red portable stereo. Still quiet, bookish, strange, but good.
I love Boston. I love the cafes and the 86 bus, the squawking geese that hang around Chandler Pond in the early spring. I love the Irish pubs and the old cathedrals. The sprawling grounds of Boston College. The majesty of the Harvard Gates. The purple flowers that grow at the Public Gardens in May. Most of all, I love the people. Colorful, eager, restless, striving, good. My friends. I love the people and the place with a pang that is honest, real, and big.
But I also love here. The salt air of the ocean. The way it smells: tangy, soft, fishy. I went to the beach today, to lie down on the sand in the sun for awhile in the early afternoon. The ocean is so much more than the ocean. I love to look at that line, where the water meets the sky, to imagine all of the places that lay beyond it, and the people that live there. When I was young, I believed that if I sent a message in a bottle across the sea, I might make the acquaintance of an interoceanic penpal. The thought makes me smile now, but the wonder that the ocean held for me then will never fade.
I do so love this place. And coming back to meet the acquaintance of myself. Remembering why I chose the path I am on now. Laughing at the decorations that simulate frost-painted windowpanes despite seventy-five degree weather on Christmas day. Waking up to tip-toe downstairs into my family's kitchen, pouring myself a cup of tea, watching the sun wake up in a sky that is unencumbered by tall buildings and paraphenalia save for the occasional palm tree dotting the open landscape like a decisive period on vast page. California is so beautiful, so warm, so unlike any other destination, that sometimes I forget to breathe when I dip my toes into the ocean, and remember it is my homeland.
(Dear God, please help me as I discern the paths open to me in this new year. And help me to choose another ending and beginning all over again.)
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