Back from the trip to San Diego. Back from the land of endless sun. Back into the cool, grey, wet cocoon of a Portland winter. Back to the crows.
The drive up the 5 was all fog once I got north of LA. Long stretches where I couldn’t go faster than 45mph. Different from last month's drive. Spooky. Internal. Isolating. Contemplative.
There is a part of me that misses my family so much, that wants to be there for all the events and parties and milestones and birthdays of the next generation. My desire to be near my family is so powerful that it made me reluctant to go down for Christmas, as much as I knew I wanted to. I was, and am, afraid. Not of the love, though it is a very dominating emotion. I am afraid of myself. Of the city. Afraid of being pulled back in, of moving back home. Of living in San Diego and going back to old habits and old routines and becoming domestic.
I don’t want to live in San Diego. The lifestyle and climate and ecology and culture don’t suit my needs. I love my Portland and my Pacific Northwest. My crows and my community. But I do miss my old home. Its smells and ease of living. And I wish that it didn’t take a day over the road to visit my family.
I feel a tenderness that I didn’t feel when I was younger. I suppose that’s a common sentiment that comes with getting older. The recognition of impermanence, the true meaning of gratitude. There is a part of me that grieves over not realizing this sooner. A deep intercardio wailing and sobbing over the harsh reminders that there is no escaping the aging process. Tantrums over the inability to revert my dad into the hill-scrambling mountain goat of a hiker he once was. The powerlessness to regenerate the eyes of my favorite uncle. I am helpless against time to preserve the fading memories of running through the halls of the Poway House with my cousins on holidays passed, laughing, screaming, dancing, farting, playing, hiding. The present was less delicate back then. I took the greatest moments of life for granted. As all children should.
I don’t know that I have a solution to what may be more of a process than a problem. I toy with the idea of visiting more often. Getting a California massage license and picking up contract work throughout the year, a week or two at a time, spending time with family on evenings and weekends and being exhausted by the end of it all. I wonder about expanding my career. Getting a book picked up. Selling crow art. Finding ways to increase flexibility in my schedule so I can visit more often. But it cuts into my dreams of travel and adventure and joining a local hockey league. My dreams are just as important to me as my family. And my family loves and supports my dreams. Loves my stories. My family is happy for me.
There is no solution to the melancholy that resides in the realization that I can’t do everything. It pisses me off. But its foundation is love.
So I accept it.
And feel it.
All pictures and words copyright Anna Horvitz (me) and cannot be used without my consent.
