My California is not the California of bright lights, late nights, big cities, famous neighbors, or nonstop sunshine.
My California is somewhat quieter, grayer, softer, perhaps even gentler.
Wrinkled and imperfect, it is cold beaches and local foods.
Dr. Seuss plants and untamed calla lillies and naked ladies, the wild beauty and nature I still don’t understand.
I didn’t know my California existed, before it became my home, many years ago.
Yet it invaded my heart, refused to relinquish me to some other version of California, anywhere it may exist, anywhere it might become the world of other persons’ dreams.
And that’s fine, I imagine; that’s good. That’s something magnificent, for me.
