I am a context traveler. When home was only given, it was less itself than it could be made. I had to get outside it and beyond it, so that at the time of my proper homecoming, I knew really what it was I was returning to. An outside perspective stokes an ideal out of the actual. Theoretical flames are thrown into the fire and, for once, assimilating therein.
When home was everything, it was also more limited. When the familiar seems to be the only thing possible, we cannot help but think of its blessings as standard features (and take them for granted). I’ve written something similar before, but I believe this: the real, quintessentially American meaning of “the West” can today best be discovered east of it. Nature underfoot, from a cramped city looking out at the great Western expanse, an old longing regrows (and regrows).
Skyscrapers are but poor imitations of the mountains (shoddy generic versions)! Oh, New York City, I have no interest in traversing your heights! Am I a hypocrite, though, that I still rely on distance to help generate my westward longing? I dream of Colorado, Utah, Arizona, and Idaho from a small East Coast apartment. And I can somehow fit them all in the same dream - not through their diminishment but by the expansion of my frame.
When I head back, it will begin like this. My eyes, always, initiate my body’s turns. I am not one to take curves quickly or gracefully; no, it’s a meandering, slow process; one that always begins from above. Oh, may my intuition rain and reign! My eyes turn towards the overfull distance, my appreciation grows, and I begin to discover truths from here that were formerly too close at hand to be objects of inquiry. Ever so gradually, I am indeed turning.
Am I wasting my time with this dragging pace, or have I just accepted the steering capabilities of the vehicle I am stuck with? The load that I am? This mind is a decision-maker that makes slow, wide turns - but I take heart that my eyes are wide too.