I am home.
I am home.
I am home.
Here I am, three years after leaving, back in California. We left Little Rock on December 9, and are now settled in Folsom. I have no job, no prospects, and nothing more than a vague plan to go to school in the fall (Masters in English…yeah, that’s useful), but it feels wonderful. I moved in on December 17 and haven’t plugged in my alarm clock yet.
The heartache of being a freelance writer will set in, once I realize how little I’ll have to live on. But for the moment, I am deleriously, deliciously happy to be able to do things like go to the beach, buy a bottle of wine on a Sunday, and eat at Panda Express on a regular basis (Sweet Jesus, the Panda map tells me I have FIVE locations to choose from).
I don’t regret my decision to leave California for a moment. It had to happen this way. Remember that episode of Sex and the City where Miranda ended up dating Manhattan guy? The guy who had never been outside of Manhattan because he just didn’t see the point? I hate people like that, and unless I lived outside of California, I’d be a female version of that guy. So naive and obnoxious, self-centered in the extreme.
California is majestic and beautiful and amazing, but if you’ve never lived anywhere else, how do you prove it? Every trial has a prosecution and a defense, and if you can’t staff both sides of the bench, you have a mistrial.
The things we learned in Arkansas can’t be learned anywhere else, and I had a duty to myself to experience life somewhere else. I did it, I learned what I was meant to learn, and I’m back! Arkansas is a beautiful place, but everything there feels like it’s on a smaller, gentler scale after growing up in California. I met some wonderful people there, and I’ll miss them, but even proximity to New Orleans can’t keep me in a place where church and state aren’t quite separated yet, and racial integration is still a daily battle.
I’ll write about something funnier next time, I promise, but this post is for California, my empress, my muse, my home.