January 20, 2011

Changing time zones

The world spins under my feet and I wake up somewhere old and new.  I am in flux, having taken to the air to make a few visits and tend to some "defferred maintenance" on our houses in California, and each few days surround me in another set of sheets and another loving place I call home.  I am today arriving in California, charged with a laundry-list of marching orders, renovations to tend to and friendships to renovate. I'm ready.

Everything feels familiar, like putting on an old shoe, formed to one's foot from the years of service, instant  comfort and a receptacle for my dry socks.  I have a pair of boots like this, stored on a high shelf in brother Seth's garage, there is anxiety every year that they will:
1. be there
2. fit
and 3. have enough sole to support me through the assignment.
But like my brother and his family, they do all that in style and comfort, and instantly too.  A few borrowed tshirts and Seth's Carhart's (that might consider me their master by now) and I can  travel light and commune at the same time.

But the familiarity runs deeper, this is a path that wanted wear and I oblige, this has been an annual migration for me with the same friendly ponds and rooftops, and there is a part of me that needs the annuality of it to maintain the imprint. I am slightly afraid that if I skipped a year my boots might not be there, but of course they would. It is just an excuse to maintain the thread that makes us Californians, Americans, Bains and McGowans.  

The importance of the face time, the snuggle, the correct image of a home, the held hand, cannot be overestimated, it's priceless, and it's why we sign up for the change and the separation from those we love, to spread ourselves thinly over the homes that create us. 

It's nice to be home, the one I left, the one I'm at and the one I'm flying towards.

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