“My heart says, ‘I love him,’ and my mind tells me to keep running.”
This is the complex reality that no one can comprehend until they’ve been in it. It tears at my own mind, and I struggle to split one instinct from the other. To compartmentalize these dueling truths so I can continue to protect my peace.
If you were to ask me to describe “home” I would tell you:
Home is big, cotton candy banks of white fog in the late afternoon rolling over the northern Santa Cruz Mountains like an ethereal sea crashing silently down into Crystal Springs Reservoir then running like a river down Highway 92 until it meets San Francisco Bay Or Cascading over the central Santa Cruz Mountains gliding over Palo Alto to meet up with San Francisco Bay Or Flowing over the southern Santa Cruz Mountains getting caught in the pines like ephemeral fabric woven of spider silk before blanketing the Valley of Heart’s Delight beneath its majesty
Home is the sound of the miniature train in Central Park clacking steadfastly along its track to the delight of small children Or The sound of a CalTrain whistle as it approaches Hillsdale Station Or The puff and squeal of the air brakes of a SamTrans bus pulling up to a curb full of chittering teenagers leaving Hillsdale Mall
Home is the tea-colored, glowing hills full of gossamer, golden-hour light on the northward drive through Los Altos and Palo Alto on Highway 280 in the autumn Or Being greeted by The Cats standing guard overlooking the winding, redwood-lined drive on Highway 17 to Santa Cruz Or The moment when the Pacific Ocean becomes visible while driving Highway 92 to Half Moon Bay knowing any minute Pastorino Farm’s pumpkins patch will appear
Home is the gazebo sitting over the lagoon at Leo J Ryan Park while kids run up an down the cement and grass risers while watching the windsurfers on the water Or Walking or ridding along the levee bike path surrounding Foster City, under the San Mateo Bridge and its fisherman until you arrive at Coyote Point Or Remembering which way to curb your wheels while visiting friends who live on or near the insanely steep hill that is Alameda De Las Pulgas
Home is the book of memories stamped upon landmarks, imperfections and inconveniences forgotten due to time or will and held in reverence in the heart forever My home has no walls, only the beauty of time and familiar places
Patience is hard Growing Becoming Evolving All require patience In a world where instant gratification Rewards us at the tap of a button Practicing patience can feel like torture
Patience demands of us To stay tethered to this moment Preventing any full escape into distraction Being present is trying It feels hard Abrasive Affronting We are uncomfortable Patience requires us to Embrace the discomfort That often comes from Being wholly present
Patience presents the opportunity To practice experiencing the now To practice being curious About our being About our feelings So that we may learn To know ourselves better So that we may learn to be More comfortable In our own skin In our own spirit In our own life
I wander amongst the damp earth and moss covered trees.
I walk by the water where the stones are worn smooth and reflect on how life has polished and refined me.
-gws
Words Wishes and Wisdom 