Perhaps the cliches are true and time and distance do make the heart grow fonder. Lately I've found myself missing California, the place I still call home, but haven't lived for six years. Upon graduating from high school, I fled San Diego and its surfer bums for the great city of New York to attend film school at NYU and flirt with the idealistic notions of making my dreams come true. Undeniably, I still love New York, but it's a city that will roughen anyone around the edges, and coupled with time and distance has allowed me a rosier colored cross country view.
The San Diego I travel back to now is almost identical to the one I left, but without the interference of clicky, snobbish high school kids. So, I guess, it is actually quite different--a much more pleasant and enjoyable place to be. And still when I drive down the freeway towards my home in the late afternoon, I feel a pang of desire to return to the music I liked and watch the television shows and movies I liked in high school, a link to the time when I was beginning to figure out my likes and dislikes and what I (think I) want to do with my life. Being in California, and driving in particular, is like a familiar smell--it brings back the feeling, though it may have become a bit muddled over the years, that the world is full of opportunity and I am capable of anything I put my mind to. The last few, post-graduation, years have proved a bit grating on my optimism, and though I'd still like to believe in these sentiments, it is becoming harder and harder to do so. Returning to San Diego, if only for a few days helps to remind me of this feeling of opportunity.
Example 1: Driving home with my friend Kathy after a pleasant dinner and a dessert so marvelous and decadent it warranted a photo shoot, we somehow came upon a discussion about how we both feel we are a bit behind the place where we would ideally like to be in our lives. Not exactly the most uplifting conversation, but, as the eternal optimist when it comes to other people's dreams, when doubting whether or not her dream of going to med-school is attainable, I bring up this idea to Kathy that with enough drive and determination she can achieve whatever it is she wants to do, and if going to med-school is her dream, then she'll make it happen. Apparently, I had brought this up in a similar conversation the last time I was home, and Kathy told me that this sentiment was one of the few things keeping her on her chosen path. When other people had suggested that perhaps she look into different professions within the health-care industry, she would think about my (unsubstantiated?) words of optimistic wisdom and decide to stay the course and continue her pursuits to become a doctor and work within the public health spectrum.
I was too tired at the time for it to really sink in, but for a few little words that have, for as long as I can remember, always been a part of my dialectic and that I choose to believe, because otherwise it would make all the thankless jobs I've worked utterly pointless, to mean something to someone else, gave me and my ideas and sentiments greater validation.
Example 2: My last evening at home before flying back to New York, I went to a barbeque at the house of old family friends with my parents. We arrived just in time to hear one of the guests telling a story about his daughter, who had just graduated from high school and whose dream of studying theater in college he did not seem to support. She hadn't gotten into NYU or a couple of other schools with reputable drama programs, and though I suppose it's a good thing to be realistic sometimes, I was rather appalled when he told us that "she was very talented, but just not that good." The optimistic me in my head retorted that, how can you know if you're good enough unless you try? He went on to inform us that she would be starting Northwestern in the fall. If she is an ounce more positive than her father, I think she'll be fine.
After that, we somehow segued to the topic of my schooling and where I am currently working. When I told him I work at a post-production house, he asked me where in San Diego it was, assuming I had returned home after college and that I probably still live with my parents. When I corrected him and told him that I live in New York, his face dropped. He looked at me flatly and asked how I can live in New York. I manage, I told him. I make it work. And then he went on to tell a story about his 30 year old niece who still needs financial help from her parents. His idiotic tales of defeat didn't bring me down--I had stopped taking him seriously ten minutes before.
The experience of leaving San Diego and returning to New York was a bit painful. As always, it was nice to be home--the dad-cooked meals, lack of worries keeping me up at night, consistently good weather--and the idea of coming back to work and responsibility wasn't something to look forward to. I try not to get upset about the petty irritants, the things that are less than the realization that I am "making it work." And though often just "making it work" doesn't seem like enough, as I was sitting on the subway recently listening to my excellent travel mix and reading my book, everything felt okay. Because perhaps one day if I keep "making it work" it will turn into something great.
