Circling Oaxaca, I look down at the ancient ruins of Monte Alban.
Circling Oaxaca, I look down at the ancient ruins of Monte Alban. The setting sun splashes over the top of the hills, pouring down into the valley where I’ve spent much of the last four months.
After a couple weeks in my old California haunts, I’m back. I don’t know what it means or how I should feel.
We got on the plane at LAX, through a sleek jetway from the space-age terminal. We get off at the front and the back of the plane, stepping out onto ladders that lead down to the tarmac.
I look out at the drought-brown hills draped in smoke, and there are no trumpets, no swelling in my breast. But there is something low and unfamiliar, a deep warmth and settling, a strange and subtle joy.
I feel it again in the cab home, rumbling over cobblestone streets and potholes and the incessant topes (speed bumps). I look out at the graffiti and the crowds of people, bristling with life in the warm night air. It’s not exotic or magical. It feels like something that might be home.
The trucks are so fucking loud here, and the dogs never stop. I’m less numb now to the noise and the array of bad smells and the brutal poverty. But I’m also less numb to this humming stillness.
It’s not belonging: I don’t belong here. It’s deeper than belonging. Everything in me perks up to this new thing. I want to sink down into it and look around in wonder. It is so precious to me.
