I'm back from a Week of Family - first, my brother's college graduation from KU (wooo! congratulations, Josh) and a few days seeing friends and family in and around Chicago.
Whenever I am back "home" (my husband hates when I say that, as he reminds me that San Francisco is our home), it is always bittersweet. At first I am transported back to the idyllic existence that I had growing up - manicured lawns, Norman Rockwell houses, big leafy trees, a shining lake. I inhale the smell of freshly mown grass and allow myself to feel 16 again. Then, little by little, reality starts to creep in. I do not have a permanent room in my parents house, and the living room is overtaken by my mother's latest obsession: birds. A Himalayan parakeet named Mango (in the photo), and an African Parrot named Zippora. It is so interesting to watch her with them - how she coos and nurtures them, but because of her busy lifestyle, ultimately leaves them alone for hours at a time, stuck in their cages, barely pacified by the classical music playing in the background, singing for their lives. Man, I know how they feel - I remember it well. Trapped.
So, when I have the chance, I take them out of their cages and let them have a bit of freedom. We have a strange relationship, me and my new feathered siblings. We know that we are just there to keep each other company, poor substitutes for any real kind of closeness, but better than nothing. And like siblings, we fight, sort of - feathers get ruffled, posturing is made, all to declare who is the boss of whom in our temporary hierarchy.
There are friends of mine who have stayed in the area where we grew up, and it's wonderful to see them and their families, in their own houses, doing things that are so familiar to me and yet so new because they are so far away from my West Coast lifestyle. I have thought from time to time how nice it would be to live like that, following the path of familiarity and tradition, like our parents and grandparents did. But then I realize, it would not be the same for me. They stayed, but I have moved away too many times, and too far. I am no longer a part of that world, although it does live inside me in a comforting, sentimental way. It might be nice at first, but then the walls would start closing in, and my thirst for adventure and newness would take over, burning like an itch.
Ultimately, my childhood home and I will remain memories to each other. It is a place where I bicycled over cracked sidewalks made uneven by tree roots and harsh winters, where I sailed on Lake Michigan, and had tanning contests with my friends in summer, and ice skated outdoors in the winter. It is a place of unlocked doors and warm summer nights with the sound of crickets in the background. And I was that idealistic girl, standing on the beach, looking out at the water and wondering what lay ahead, waiting for my moment to fly.
