I am truly pleased to present this guest blog by my friend May Horan. One of the great gifts of doing this project is having the chance to make new friends. Thank you, May, for sharing this.
Growing up, I was an anxious child. I was meek and mild, shy to the point of not speaking. The world was a scary place to me then. Everything seemed large and foreboding, as they always do to a child. I felt it most acutely with sunset. Warm tones of red and gold line the western horizon of my childhood, the mountains like purple velvet cut-outs cradling my hometown. The sky would slowly soften and melt into the mountains, blending with the horizon until only night remained. It isn’t the dark that scared me, it was what could hide inside it. The only bastion against the darkness was the twinkling lights of houses on the hillside, giving me something to hold on to in the dead of night. Dawn would come with a sigh of relief, carving out the mountaintops exactly as I remembered them. Exactly as I left them. Sometimes I could not sleep until I had that certainty.
But with time comes change, and the fears of our childhood take on new meaning. The unknown of what lay beyond those rounded peaks began to make me restless, my hometown now too small. Something to be molted and discarded. Just beyond the horizon was where it all was. What it was never really mattered. It was there, and I was not. My only relief was in the form of books; The Great Gatsby was a particular favorite of mine. I could always relate to Jay Gatsby and his blinking green light, arms stretched out and grasping at what lies across the bay, thinking that if we could just get there, that things would finally fall into place.
I have since climbed those mountains, or at least one. Not an easy climb, but certainly doable for most able-bodied adults. That which defined my life in so many ways, my protector and my prison, that barrier between me and the world, suddenly seemed so small. It takes a few hours to make it to the top, and on the way I would look back at my hometown, shrinking with each step. A miniature place where miniature people live their miniature lives. What did I see from the top, you may ask? More of the same. Funnily enough, that side had its own route up the mountain. I wonder if any other hikers felt that same longing, and that same disappointment.
I have since moved away from my hometown. Not so far in the grand scheme, but there was still novelty to be had, at least for a little while, and I settled into my new home. Exposure begets knowledge, and knowledge begets predictability. The world seemed to shrink again, and that restlessness had returned. I never did too well with routine. Even now, the southern slopes of the Santa Ana Mountains call me like a siren’s song. Mountains are shy, almost playful. They coax and plead, asking you to come and see for yourself. In my most desperate of moments, I sometimes think of disappearing in their sloping hills. Whatever I thought I wanted was there, and I was not.
More recently, I have developed a chronic illness. It can be physically debilitating at times, the pain numbing the senses and the mind. It has become a constant and nagging presence; most people who have it say you get used to it, like white noise fading into the background. It would become mundane, and sometimes that fact brings people comfort, knowing the bounds of their world will remain as they were. Exactly as we left them. For me, it felt like prison. It was no longer a question of location, but of being. My days were decided by something far out of my control. When I had free time, I found myself wandering further and further from home, with no particular place to go.
One such day, I didn’t make it very far at all: some twenty minutes from home, the warmth of the day easing my pain, but not my mind. I walked through the sun-drunk streets of Oceanside looking for… I can’t really say. Not a mystery, as I had come to know the layout of my new home pretty well. I made my way down the concrete steps towards the pier, and wandered slowly along the beach. I couldn’t help but stare at those passing by. It’s hard not to wonder at people moving so freely, even if I can no longer do so. I sat for a moment to rest, and looking around I saw something new in this familiar place. A man sitting in a beach chair behind an A-frame sign, an empty seat to the side of him. I’ll admit I didn’t read the sign fully. I stopped once it said he would listen to me, without judgement.
Each day we make our way up that mountain. There is no real way to know what lies ahead of us, the path twisting and bending, splitting into dozens of potential routes to the top. Some find solace in looking behind them. What once loomed so large seems so quaint from above, almost miniature. It can help soften the challenges that lie ahead. Others will tear ahead with only one thing in mind. That restlessness can be blinding, narrowing our vision until we only see there. We must be there. That was certainly how I felt. Perhaps if we slow down we’ll see the little markers that people leave behind: rock cairns hastily assembled, little flags or bits of trash, initials carved into a tree, or the subtle marks of people resting in the grass. Maybe it’s guidance, or an attempt to mislead, or just little things to say, “ Hello! I was once here too!” We will all get there eventually, whatever ‘there’ is. In the climb it is easy to lose perspective. That thing that alludes us is right here.