"Settling, white dew
does not discriminate,
each drop its home."
- Soin (1604 - 16820
I’m at the age where I can spout sturdy clichés like they were pearls of wisdom. Example: you can’t go home again.
A couple of weeks ago when I was back east. I drove through the neighborhoods where I grew up, and where my child was born. For so long, these neighborhoods were home to me. And yet I frequently got lost driving down so many memory lanes, either because I’ve changed or the places have changed. I couldn’t find home.
A few days later, back in California, I was sitting outside reading a book while my cat sprawled on the cool patio. I looked up and found – home. It was only in returning to the town (where I’ve now lived most of my life) that I found what I’d been looking for in those old neighborhoods where I grew up. I found that I had returned home.
Another cliché is the one aunts and uncles used to say when we were kids they only saw every few years: my how you’ve grown. There on the patio with my cat and my book, I found myself thinking that I’d grown a bit more since the last time I was home.