Last week I flew back home, back to where it all started, to get ready for the wedding. I got in late at night, and when I woke up the next day I couldn’t believe how alien the landscape, the landscape of my home, had become.
It is just. so. green.
Dense, eye-watering green that hangs heavy overhead. Beneath this canopy the air is thick with the fecund perfume of growing things and thunderstorms. The green, so wild and ancient, seems to muffle all the human buzzes and beeps of civilization, and at the same time amplify all the rustlings of creatures in the undergrowth, all the whistles and calls of birds. Even just driving down my suburban road, it made me feel completely alone, like the last person alive after the green has reclaimed the earth.
I had forgotten how much I missed this. Moving to southern California, it’s easy to miss the changing seasons in autumn, which basically doesn’t exist in Los Angeles. But it’s harder to talk about why I get so heartsick in June. After all, how could I possibly miss the summertime, living in LA? Summer started in February for me; I get approximately ten and a half months of summer a year. But when I walked out of my parent’s house for the first time, I remembered how it feels to wake up one morning and realize that everything around you is alive, and wide awake.
Photo by Ajaytao.