Go West, young man, go West and grow up with the country

three years ago I sat captive to the limits of my own imagination on the concrete shores of manhattan—staring at the east river ripping by—claustrophobic under the shadows of skyscrapers—sad, but unaware why. 

west is best, I thought.  something inside me yearned for it.  maybe it’s the tv’s fault, maybe it’s the grateful dead’s.  maybe it’s because at age four my parent’s took me to my first live concert:  the beach boys at Nassau coliseum.  amazing. 

three years later I sit here in the foothills of the smoky mountains a married man.  my mind’s eye beams like a spotlight in one direction only, and now—at last--the time is upon us. 

it’s farm land we seek.  it’s a home.  it’s the future.  returning home, for the very first time.  a place for healing, a place for food.  a place to just be.  a place to grow deep roots.

if california was approaching me in a meadow of wildflowers i would sprint towards her in slow motion and embrace her with open arms.  i want to roll in her sand, climb her hills, and swim in her sea.  i want to stand on her hilltops in a thunderstorm, my barefoot feet in her mud,  and howl like a wolf into her darkened skies.  it's time.