The red apple

Southern Summers

I need to get away.

This is a phrase I’ve been saying for years now. For some reason I can never truly get used to a place. I can never really make my heart settle, and stop roaming. I can never call a place my home. So I have to get out, and go somewhere else. Maybe it’s my mind, maybe it’s my heart.

It’s something I feel in the middle of the night. It’ something I feel in my stomach. It’s something I feel when I come home in the afternoons, sit down, and suddenly don’t have the will to stand again. I look out the window, and see that my day ends here, behind closed door.

Maybe it’s just that it’s been so long since I’ve had time to sit and think. Time always seems to be occupied with things to do, things to see, and thing to procrastinate on.

I listen to some Spanish songs, and feel as though I should be in Mexico, learning the language that has mastered my heart. I see photographs of Taiwan, and feel as though I should be at my grandfather’s home, walking amongst the rice fields, carrying on my roots. I hear of the midwest, and think of living among wide open spaces, and feel as though I should taste the snow in the winter and be scorched by the sun in the summer. My thoughts finally return here, to San Diego, and I feel as though this is where I should settle. Nestled in the sands of the western shore where I’ve lived all my life, perhaps this is where my last breath will mingle with the night sky someday, like a wisp of smoke into the cold air.

And when my thoughts come to God, restless doesn’t begin to describe it.

I remember driving to the community college I used to go to, at the early hours of the morning when I was hardly awake. My windshield was smudged with morning frost, and the streets were desolate except for a few other bleary eyed drivers getting to their jobs. While waiting at the red lights, I would think of the classes I was to take, and the afternoon that would be filled with a meaningless minimum wage job. I’d think about how I would go home from work at night, empty handed, tired, and so alone that it hurt. And I would turn my music louder, and pray to God. Because I was broken, and so weak. I needed Him.

“You’re my delight, my everything.”

Walking with God was never about a name for us to call ourselves by, or an action we do to brand ourselves. It was all about what we say God is. I could say God is a deity, or the creator. I could say he is a myth, or that he is science. I could say he is the key to not dying, or he is the great murderer. But in the end, it will mean nothing until I can say that He is my “delight, my everything.” Until I realized that I needed Him.

I learned this through friends. I could define my friends simply as people in my class, or a friend from school, but until I could say that they meant something to me, we were nothing to each other.

This summer will be my first time spending the whole summer season in the U.S. I’ve been going to Asia every summer for the last few years. Maybe I’ve forgotten what a summer sunset looks like from the desert of Southern California. It is it’s own distinct season, this southern summer. Sleeping with the windows open, watermelon, and lots of down time to think.

There were times that were so different from now. And now is a time that is so different from the future. I can only wonder.

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