When I drive around, the weather is clear and blue-skied, slightly breezy, high in the low 90s, low humidity. There are palm trees lining every other street, hibiscus and guava grow readily along hedges and in front yards, citrus trees are dotted here and there along the front lawns of spanish revival homes. If I were anywhere else, this would be so special. It would be exotic, Mediterranean, sub/tropical. But it is not, because it is from here and I am from here.
Sometimes, when I walk in the evening, I try to see my little world as if I am from somewhere else. And it is beautiful, and lush and green, the bougainvillea plants that twine their way through alleys and side yards, the variety of fruit trees that are in a two-block radius of where I live (from East and Southeast Asia, the Mediterranean, and native to the West Coast), all growing with such guiltless abandon. It is a paradise, here. And I feel like I can barely sometimes grasp this from a fresh perspective and appreciate it for what it is, but such understanding is so fleeting and I must try again and again to see it, and not just walk the same path I have trod for twenty years.
I wonder, if one were to die and go to heaven, would it become kind of commonplace too? If so, then...well...why not just stick around here? Or somewhere less perfect, anyway. It seems like it would be a waste.
1 comment:
I was thinking about this just the other day while I was at Seaport Village... How beautiful it is here, how many tourists there are, all the people who'd give anything to live here -- and it's just the place where I keep my belongings. It's weird.
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