James and I flew in Thursday, and, through a combination of run-of-the-mill airline inconveniences, I didn't get to sleep until around 3 am, which is to say 6 am New York time.
When I woke up the next morning, I felt like I'd been hit by a train. I stumbled downstairs (I'm not a morning person under the best of circumstances) and wandered outside.
It was like when Dorothy wanders out of her black and white shanty and finds herself in the technicolor world of Oz. Only better, with less garish colors.
Or, like the descriptions in the bible when people walk across deserts to end up in the land of milk and honey.
Only this land was created especially for me. And, it's a land of citrus fruits and swimming pools.
However much I love New York (and, I love New York), there's something that feels so right about standing in my mom's sun-drenched kitchen while she slices tomatoes from her garden, and nips out to pull a few basil leaves for her sandwich.
It's impossible to separate the feelings I have about being home, and the feelings I have about California. But, the thing is, those feelings aren't remotely separate to begin with.
Okay. I have to go. I'm canceling my plane ticket today, and I just heard my dad pull up in the driveway with breakfast burritos and a case of coca cola.