Fire Days

I caught a whiff of smoke the other day.  Not unusual, since we heat our house with a wood stove.  But this whiff was different.  Just the right sort of wood was burning, just the right amount of smoke assailed my nostrils.  It drifted in through the skylight as I was washing my hands and suddenly I was frozen.  I knew that smell.  It was the smell of a hundred burning hills.  It was the smell of destruction, of crackling pines, of ash-filled air.  It was the smell of a burning state.

When people think of Southern California, they usually equate it with movie stars, palm trees, and glamor.  Maybe even the Beach Boys.  Sure, we've got that stuff.  But that's not all, brother.  There are palm trees on the coast, but drive an hour east and you're in the desert.  Not high or flat desert, you have to go further for those.  This is different.  This an arid land of tall hills covered with boulders and short, scrubby bushes.  Shaggy oaks and tumbleweeds.  In the rainy season, it's gorgeous.  The hills are frosted with grass and the wildflowers bloom.  New growth shows up everywhere.  It lasts for a month or two.  Then the rain stops, the wind blows, and the sun beats down.  Soon the hills are brown, dry, barren.  The perfect tinderbox.  Every few years, some drunken fool messes around in the middle of nowhere and starts a spark.  This spark leads to a flame, the flame leads to a fire, and before you know it, half the county is ablaze.

The trees were blackened, the grass disappeared, smoke filled the air for miles.  Hundreds of houses were reduced to rubble as the fire scorched across the hills and forayed into the outlying towns.  Trapped in the house for days on end, I paced from room to room staring through the windows.  The sky was not blue.  That friendly expanse was replaced with a stranger; a nasty gray overcast tinged with sickly yellow, hovering close over the rooftops.  Breathing was difficult in those days.  The only options were stuffy, recycled air inside, or thick, choking air outside.  The smell of smoke was everywhere and ash covered everything.  We kept one eye on the news, one eye on the weather.  We prayed for rain.

grass-stains and citrus

the orange is smooth and fits in my hand.  i sit on my heels, balancing on the narrow strip of concrete surrounding what used to be the garden.  it is currently a mound of grass clippings, ashes from the fireplace, and rotting oranges.  i have been pulling weeds for the past hour.  i don't know why.  i didn't have to.  i wanted to.  i finished my work and was sitting in the grass and started absentmindedly tugging up the lanky stems of crabgrass.  i had a pile before i even noticed.  it rained the other day and the ground is still soft.  now my hands are grubby and grass-stained.

the sun is warm on my back while a breeze plays with my already messy hair.  it's peaceful out here.  quiet.  i dig my thumb into the top of the orange, slicing through and ripping off a chunk of the peel.  juice drips over my fingers and it stings my skin.  it's as if my hands are working automatically.  thumb sneaks under the peel, grips it against the side of my index finger, pulls until it tears away from the rest of the rind.  all in one memorized motion.  the accompanying sound strikes my ears and it's all too familiar.  part rip, part hiss.  a sharp, fleshy sound.

soon the ground is littered with chunks of peel, their white insides bright in the sunlight.  more juice is finding its way out, so i lift the orange to my lips and suck the fresh sweetness off the top.  i think the sun would taste like citrus.  i break the fruit in half and tear off a segment with my teeth.  it's sweet.  not the sweetest, these oranges are better for juicing, but it's fresh.  i continue tearing and eating.  the liquid is finding its way across my knuckles, trekking to my wrists.  i finish the last segment and look down at my hands.  grass-stained palms, juice dripping from my fingertips.  i smile, gloating a little to myself.  i live here.

mumford & sons radio

i lie stretched on the floor, my feet resting on the hearth, soaking in the warmth from the fire.  a plain white t's song thrums quietly from pandora, blending with the light, flat clatter of laptop keys.  it was sunny this morning, but the marine layer has since rolled in.  which is why we're holed up in the living room with a fire and tunes and typing.  pandora moves on to florence + the machine and my foot automatically picks up the beat.


we're going to the theater tonight, to see steel magnolias.  first, though, we shall pick up a couple of burritos for dinner and roam the island in our classy-casual clothes and capture photographs of loveliness.


mumford & sons play and i turn up the volume.


i feel like watching a hitchcock film.

This Is Home

Home.  
Mexican food and palm trees and sunshine.
Home.  
Vietnamese food and fir trees and rain.
Home.

I live in San Diego.  Born here, raised here, lived here my entire life.  My roots are deep in this, America's Finest City.  I know it.  I can tell you where the best pizza joint is, how to get to the closest In-N-Out, where to find the tastiest beans, where to buy fresh tortillas, and the name of the restaurant that has the best green salsa you've ever tasted.  I know the legend of Kate Morgan and I know Cabrillo was actually Portuguese, not Spanish.  I have grown up with the relaxed, easy-going, mañana attitude that is such a major part of the surfing culture.  (Despite never having surfed.)  It's my city.

And then there's Portland.  Bridgetown.  The City of Roses.  Starting in 2007, I've spent two or three months of each year, usually over Christmas, in P-Town.  Various circumstances have called my family north - a friend's back surgery, buying a house for my brother and then remodeling it, work for my dad, my brother's wedding one year, a nephew and a photography workshop (IPS shout-out!) the next.  I grew accustomed to transferring my life and started putting down roots.  I consider my brother's church to also be my church.  I have learned to like coffee based drinks.  Some of my best friends and my favorite family members are in the Northwest.  Whenever I'm sick, I want phở instead of chicken soup.  Life was changing and I was becoming more and more attached to Portland. 

You know those families who seem to know everyone, and who everyone else knows or has heard of?  Well, my brother married a girl from that family.  I became friends with her brothers and suddenly I knew all the people in the church who were around my age.  And everyone else knew me.  (I've lost count of the times people came up to me, asking how I was, requesting I tell Oregonian-transplanted-to-California hi from them.  I, of course, had no idea who I was even talking to and I was never brave enough to ask.)  So I started making friends and I found I could settle easily into the groove made by like-minded people.  Homeschooling families, conservative values, a church where I actually learned something.  I loved it.  I didn't want to come back.  It felt like home.

I was at a loss.  I suddenly had two lives.  On one hand is the place where I've grown up and have a history.  On the other hand is the place where I've made new friends and grown closer to God.  I honestly didn't know where I belonged.

And then life changed again.  Dad was asked to remodel a parsonage into offices, so we made our usual 18 hour drive, stayed over Christmas, and had a grand time.  January came around and we were still in town, which made me happy.  Until a conversation was had, a relationship was scrambled, and I lost one of my closest friends.  There was drama and hurt and it felt like World War III.  This friend went to the same church, so there was a weekly reminder of pain.  In past times we had always sat together at the shared meal after the service and now we were just barely on speaking terms.  I had to shift my habits and adjust friendships and what had been simple was now complicated.  I do not like complicated.  So when it was time to leave, I was glad to get away.  Back to work, back to routine, back to real life.  That was definitely a switch.  I don't know if I have ever been more grateful for San Diego.

So.  Where is home?  What is home?
Am I supposed to choose between two places that each hold a half of my heart?
I hope not.  Because I can't.
I have no idea where I'll ultimately end up, but for now I shall live in one and visit the other.
Because home is in both cities.
Home is where I laugh until I cry, where I run to clear my head, where I can hug the people I love, where I can work with my hands, where I can make my parents proud, where I remember to be grateful, where I watch the waves crash, where I hear the wind howl in the evergreens, where I'm pushed and challenged and stretched.  Home is wherever God puts me.  Because He is with me constantly, and when I have Him, I am home.