I woke up to rain this morning. The rain in Virginia doesn't smell as good as the rain in California, but it is still nice to sit by the window and listen to it, and after the ridiculously hot weather of the past few weeks it brings a welcome coolness to the air. I can tell fall is not far off, and I am happy, because it is my favorite season. In danger of sounding unfaithful to my old California, I will say that fall on the east coast is far prettier than fall on the west coast. There is a blaze of color such as I have never seen before, and it delights my heart. I love the fall colors, and I love September. I believe September is the best month of the year. Of course that may partly be because I was born in that month.Now it is September, and I have been in Virginia for a few weeks. School started this week, and I am getting back into my routine of going to bed earlier and getting up earlier (something I have never really liked) and remembering to pack a lunch the night before so I am not scrambling in the morning because it is not ready. I still miss my California home, but fortunately I have the gift of being content in whatever situation I am in. The transitions are hard for me, but once the transition is over I am fine. And this time my very wonderful cousins met me at the airport and were very excited to see me again. A three-year-old cousin who gets up in the morning and says, "I'm excited because today we're picking up Cloe," is a very good welcome indeed.
But still, leaving your childhood home is never easy. No matter how many times I leave home, it never gets any easier. Every time I spend an extended length of time with my family I tell myself I can't wait to get away again, but when it comes time to leave I'm a sobbing mess. That's the thing about your family: they drive you absolutely crazy-up-the-wall, and they can be so annoying, et cetera and so on...but when it comes down to it, they really aren't all that bad. If nothing else, they will always love you and stick up for you, and they are always there when you need them. And somehow I can't stay away.
***
But now I am going back to Virginia, where the rain just smells damp. Four o'clock in the morning. A sleepless night during which I can't wait for my alarm to ring so I can stop tossing and turning and trying to fall asleep. Everyone gets up to see me off at a quarter to five. And I cry because for some reason I'm going to miss them. That's the thing about families: they're easier to love when you're not living with them. And the family will not stay the same. My older brother is in Illinois; my younger brother and sister are off to college tomorrow; only three left at home. We might not all be back for Christmas. We weren't all back this summer. It makes me sad to think about; I like things to stay the same when I come home. And I'm crying because it doesn't get an easier.
I board the plane at Burbank, feeling rather low. I sit next to a middle-aged couple, and we are silent for a while until I pull out my homemade quilt because the air conditioning is slowly freezing me. The woman and I talk about quilting and sewing, and then she asks me if I'm in school, and I tell her no, I'm working at a Montessori school. We talk about Montessori and other alternative education methods, because she is a speech therapist who works with autistic and Downs-Syndrome kids and prefers the alternative methods.
At Denver (my old stomping-grounds; I used to fly in there when returning to college) I switch planes and this time I sit in an row with an empty seat, and miraculously it stays that way. It is so nice not to be squished in next to another person for several hours. The aisle seat is occupied by an older gentleman with an accent. He seems very kind. He smiles and asks me about my violin which I have stowed in the overhead compartment, and I tell him what it is and about the Manassas Symphony. A little later I take out my writing binder and work on my manuscript, not just editing, but adding large chunks to the story. The man beside me asks me if I am writing a paper and I tell him no, I am writing a book. He expresses genuine interest and tells me about the time he was on a plane and happened to sit next to Stephanie Meyer (who is the author of the Twilight Series). We talk about my writing, and then he tells me about a book he is writing. He is from Columbia (hence the accent) and he is writing a book about his ancestors in Spain and tying it in with his life in Columbia. He seems to come from a very long-lived family: his father lived to be 111 years old! It was altogether a very pleasant conversation and it seemed no time before we were landing at Dulles. I got off the plane with the very rare experience of having rather enjoyed my five-hour flight.
They say home is where the heart is. While I have never been fond of platitudes and cliches, I believe this one to be true. Yes, California will always be my home in a way - one cannot so easily forget the place where all of one's childhood memories are made - but now I am in Virginia, and I shall make the best of it. Just last weekend I attended a fabulous music festival and had a good time. There are far less of those sorts of things in California. I find myself looking for the mountains, and I feel a little sad when I do not see the Sierra Nevadas stretching out before me as I stand in a field of golden grass and feel the wind blowing through my hair. And I miss the pungent smell of a California rain
as it hits the dry ground. But out here there are the green trees, the rolling fields of green, and the bright yellow wildflowers that seem to grow everywhere. And soon it will be fall, and the world will be a blaze of red and gold.
Yes, I believe I will be all right.
At Denver (my old stomping-grounds; I used to fly in there when returning to college) I switch planes and this time I sit in an row with an empty seat, and miraculously it stays that way. It is so nice not to be squished in next to another person for several hours. The aisle seat is occupied by an older gentleman with an accent. He seems very kind. He smiles and asks me about my violin which I have stowed in the overhead compartment, and I tell him what it is and about the Manassas Symphony. A little later I take out my writing binder and work on my manuscript, not just editing, but adding large chunks to the story. The man beside me asks me if I am writing a paper and I tell him no, I am writing a book. He expresses genuine interest and tells me about the time he was on a plane and happened to sit next to Stephanie Meyer (who is the author of the Twilight Series). We talk about my writing, and then he tells me about a book he is writing. He is from Columbia (hence the accent) and he is writing a book about his ancestors in Spain and tying it in with his life in Columbia. He seems to come from a very long-lived family: his father lived to be 111 years old! It was altogether a very pleasant conversation and it seemed no time before we were landing at Dulles. I got off the plane with the very rare experience of having rather enjoyed my five-hour flight.
***
They say home is where the heart is. While I have never been fond of platitudes and cliches, I believe this one to be true. Yes, California will always be my home in a way - one cannot so easily forget the place where all of one's childhood memories are made - but now I am in Virginia, and I shall make the best of it. Just last weekend I attended a fabulous music festival and had a good time. There are far less of those sorts of things in California. I find myself looking for the mountains, and I feel a little sad when I do not see the Sierra Nevadas stretching out before me as I stand in a field of golden grass and feel the wind blowing through my hair. And I miss the pungent smell of a California rain
as it hits the dry ground. But out here there are the green trees, the rolling fields of green, and the bright yellow wildflowers that seem to grow everywhere. And soon it will be fall, and the world will be a blaze of red and gold.
Yes, I believe I will be all right.
