Mist-Covered Towns

These passing days are a fine morning mist rolling in from La Jolla's shores -- as moody and uncertain as the emotional limbo state of a love-struck teenager awaiting a clear answer. The uncertainty is unsettling. But maybe that's the point: to unsettle ourselves from time to time. Because in this universe, mist eventually evaporates. Everything is temporary.

I should have known. Monthly deductions for rent should have served as a constant reminder that my residence here is impermanent. And yet, with each new nail hole I hammered into our renter's walls, another root planted itself firmly into the ground until, one morning, I discovered an overgenerous collection of them tethering me tightly to this earth. I was settled.

All the while, in some alternate universe, exists another mist-covered town where time moves differently. It stands still for those who cling, and flows forward for those who let go. Naturally, the latter folks have long since up and left. Most cameras are rendered useless here, as there is no need to capture moments that are already frozen snapshots. An obligated middle-aged daughter sharing a home with her immigrant parents, the ones who have made big sacrifices to get them all here. Young men in their bachelor towers of late nights and living eternally free from any kind of commitment. A widow who has lost her loving husband. Regardless of circumstance, everything remains motionless here, devoid of ebb and flow. And somewhere in this town was another me, lingering there for ages.

Then a firm little nudge woke me up from this dream. Sobered and sleepy-eyed, I took a numbered walk around the neighborhood that wasn't ever really mine to begin with.

And then I felt it: unsettled -- just like the buzzing love-struck teenager. I looked up, and the moody skies whispered back down to me: "Don't get too precious -- this is all a fine mist."