Touched down under the night sky, the sprawl so sprawling, and I Love LA. My heart feels heavy, though not because of this place that made me. It is the relief, it is the gratitude, it is the surrender. All are part of the thrill of being home again.
What’s LA like? Mostly the same. TSA shouting at the sea of arrivals in customs, though there seemed to be fewer agents doing the shouting. Traffic thick as ever, horns blaring their familiar soundtrack. My son at the wheel, navigating the chaos while I reminded him to be more Balinese, please, slower, softer, patient.
The next morning, I found myself back on the Manhattan Beach Strand. The same stretch, the same light. I saw everyone, though I also realized I know fewer people now. Mentally, it feels like a victory lap. In reality, I am just another person, walking with friends, sipping coffee, watching dolphins play. It’s what I love most about being here. It changes, but it also stays the same. Same people, same views, same Vuori/Aviator Nation/Lululemon uniform, same vibe.
From this vantage point, America looks fine.
By afternoon, one of my besties swept in from London, as luminous, gorgeous and full of life as ever. We went to our old favorite for a cocktail and dinner. All good here, and very busy too. Americans doing their thing in this expensive beach town, working, living. Same as it ever was. I know there are corners of this country where this isn’t the case. But so far, and from here, the vibes still aren’t off.
I know my view is filtered. I’m connecting with friends at the top of their game, which colors the story. My Uber driver, from Oaxaca, told a different one. He spoke of wanting to return to Mexico but knowing he couldn’t come back if he did. His nine-year-old son, he said, never asks for anything. Not the extras, not even the small things. He and his wife both work two jobs. They’re just holding on.
At the local bookstore, my favorite community hub, the talk was about which book best captures the spirit of our times (see two new reads, below, both unrelated to this subject) At the local watering hole, the talk was about ski trips in December. Mixed signals and complicated truths. No matter your politics, America is a patchwork of contradictions that somehow holds together.
October at the beach is perfection. Warm afternoons, sunsets gone every color of the rainbow, tides low and glassy at dusk. People still giddy from summer, volleyball tournaments, barbecues, salt-streaked hair, sun-tinted skin.
And me? I’m still arriving. Still finding my rhythm. Still surrendering to what is.
What is home? What does it feel like? It lives inside us, but it’s external too. Home is sleeping in a bed that feels like tenderness. It’s people. It’s the friend I’ve known since grade four (Eric Burns, photo below), we studied together, stayed connected, and we are still trying to understand the world in our own ways. It’s family, too, spending time with family, holding new babies, feeling the continuity of love stretch across generations. It’s walking past my old house, seeing my neighbors faces, and feeling the pulse of warmth and familiarity that reminds me I belong.
Home is also longing, the ache of unfinished stories that haven’t yet found their ending, or their new beginning. It’s where joy and melancholy share the same space. It’s standing still long enough to deeply feel both.
Am I connected? Am I disconnected? Yes. It’s complicated. I’m complicated, too.
America is VERY complicated. But it’s also good. Maybe even great. And me too. I’m great, here.
writing inspired by MM and this view
