Springtime for Hitler

Spring in New York was like a relief. It felt like a ton of bricks was shed from the gray skies and off of my shoulders. And literally, shedding wool coats, scarves, mittens and layers of clothing made me feel about 15 pounds lighter. Also, there was no more planning, I could just walk out my door without thinking about how many layers were necessary for the day, if I needed to shovel or sprinkle more salt on the icy hill before going to the grocery store. Spring in New York was like the feeling of being all done with finals. It was such a gloriously happy seasonal change I forget all about the winter complaints and met my friends at the park to talk about how great the weather was. There should be a spring parade, everyone would attend.

California is always beautiful. No one ever talks about the weather. Ever. Even in the spring. It just gets more beautiful. Most lifers here don't even take much notice to the bright colors covering the hillsides like soft baby blankets. Purple, white, orange, red, and yellow gently hover on top of the brightest and most abundant green grass I have ever seen. It's like when you use a popcorn popper and get all excited when the popcorn knocks the lid off and overflows. It almost seems fake, like a really big painting. Like I am living in The Truman Show movie. Like I can kick over the acrylic on canvas set that appears to be sky, mountains, hills, beauty. Unreal is a word I mumble often as I drive down any freeway, thinking Ireland must be more than my vocabulary could describe.

And it's not mine, California. I am just borrowing all of it. We never have intended to live here for a long time. It's a resting place for a bit that I wish I could package up like the folding chairs and take with me, where ever it is we decide to land and plant some roots. Until then I am living with a walk-on part of a background shot from a movie I'm not in.