We
have been back here, in The South, for five months now. It seems
surreal to say the least how months just accumulate on one's journey
through this life without one as much as noticing it or hearing it.
But here we are. We've been Southerners for five months!
It's
been a mixture of melancholy, excitement, sadness and joy that I have
savored these months with – a mixture that has been, to be honest,
unexpected. Joy and excitement I would have expected, maybe even
melancholy, but sadness? That was surprising!
There
is sort of a sadness to be back. There is sometimes sort of a longing
for what we just left behind. I miss the mountains sometimes. I get
lost dreaming about my next trip to The West. This, I
did not expect.
There
is sort of a reset button you have to push when you move anywhere,
but especially when you move back to almost square one. But
not quite. And it's not easy to do it. The sadness might come also
from the fact that the time seems to stand still here. Not much
newness in these parts, and my body is saying: “you needed new
things, not more of the same old ...”. There is no smart response I
can give to that.
There
is also a personal time, a time that did move and did grow, and
matured elsewhere. This time, all internal to me, lived in the hard
and harsh Rockies for a while, got beaten down by canyon winds, and
turned red from red rock dust in the desert. This personal, internal
time, living mostly in my mind wants to be roaming and climbing
trails somewhere far, far away, close to the aspen groves and the
rocky peaks.
I
try to bring my heart home – but home is now an
elusive concept, I guess. I try to rein it in back into the slow
flowing Southern hollow … and it keeps wanting to stay wild. And
that's where that sadness comes from: being forced to reboot when all
your heart wants to do is fly … It also comes, somewhat, from the
fact that friends you thought you had seem elusive now and although
pretty much next door, they are swallowed by their daily lives and
there is no room for you. You have to start anew even with them. But
people forget. In Romanian we say that “When people's eyes cannot
look into each other's anymore, they look for someone else's.” Such
is life!
The
truth is, however, this damn weather! It's been horrible since we got
back. Probably one of the worst winters we'll ever live to talk
about, mostly because we did not expect it to be this cold. The cold
alone is enough to drive you bonkers, the lingering cold for days on
end.
We
tried to get away from it by taking two trips this winter: one to the
South Carolina beaches and one to Wilmington, NC. The two trips we
took were the only windows we had into really taking in the beauty
and the love and the warm welcome that The South has ready for us.
The rest of the time, we have been cooped up in the house with the
fireplace on and dreaming of far far lands …
If
Jung's theory that our ancestors' experiences live deep in our brains
amounts to anything, then at least one of my ancestors lived in the
American South, at one point. I have no proof of this, and it is
probably highly unlikely, but there is something awakened in me when
I stroll an old Southern town.
Taking
in the architecture, the live oaks, the huge magnolia trees, the
endless amount of green lining the cobblestone streets fills my heart
with a feeling of the familiar, and of the stuff that “home” is
made of. There is a peace, a quiet lull in the speed of life here.
The swish of the pine trees outside my house in the silent bright
morning. Life is moving slowly here.
Alleyway lined by huge magnolia trees
There is something all-encompassing about olden like oaks. The stories they could tell.
Strolling
on familiar streets has a certain charm to it. Gaping the eyes wide
open and losing my retina into the infinite Carolina blue skies
connects me to God and beyond. It's a deep connection that I cannot
let go of. A connection I craved for several years while away.
I
love seeing cardinals in my neighborhood at any old hour. They're
happy and feel at home themselves. I love the magnolia blooms which
dared to pop despite the crazy weather.
In
every grand outdoor staircase of every Colonial house, in every
wrap-around porch, under every column, I see like a chimera at least
one or two poofy dresses roaming about … Just for a second, and
then they're gone. “A civilization gone with the wind ...”
Some of the grand old Colonial homes in Wilmington. You can hear history writing itself at an old rickety table with a squeaky old stylus
Spanish moss has me believing in ghosts again.
Time
stood still back when the big mansions were built and they endure
today. Manners are not old fashioned, and no one has ever met a
stranger. Everyone's everyone else sweetheart, darling,
or love. Even the grocery store lady calls us that. We have
not met one person that was so much as indifferent to us. Everyone is
nice and warm and we count our blessings.
This.
This pace, this quiet land, the gratuitous smile of strangers on our
weary hearts are balms that cure the longing for far away rocks.
These are all reminders that old or new, like it or not, back-paddled
or otherwise, we are home. And home is where you start over. And home
is where you grow. Looking forward to some nicer weather and more
adventures right here, in our new old back yard.
My American life started 20 years ago on the shore of the Atlantic Ocean, about a mile away from this very spot. This year, I started my second coming to the South here, too. Just to get perspective, to think, regroup, and recenter. It was as breathtaking, daunting, scary and maddeningly exciting as 20 years ago. This is a sunrise ....
