After reading Elizabeth Eslami’s Of Writers and Recluses I considered where my place is, and I considered writing about it. I was lucky enough to be born into the place that is My Place, and that place is the California coast.
I have two great loves of my life: the sun and the Pacific Ocean. The hot and cold, subtle and undeniable, soft and strong, furtive and honest, both so powerful, so vital and encompassing. My love for them is romantic, dictating. My soul cringes to think of leaving them.
I say that I was lucky enough to be born here in My Place, and I mean it. Sure, growing up somewhere that is so nearly paradise, you will learn to love it, mostly by the failure of everywhere else in comparison. But it is deeper than that. My family has been here for generations; I have countless relatives here now. Something drew us here so many years ago, and year after year something keeps each one of here. It is our place, it is home.
Eslami’s piece insisted that I try writing about My Place, my home, my sun and sea, but I wonder, how? Maybe, this is left for more better equipped than me, because how do put the feeling of home and love and internal perfection into words and do them justice? The challenge is not an aspect, it is entirety.
I do not like to leave challenges unconquered, or at least untested, just as I do not let fear take control. This is the goal, writing of and to and for My Place. A goal to be patient for.