From the Chronicle Books archives, The Hills of San Francisco, © 1959, by The Chronicle Publishing Company.
"Any hill is home, as long as it has a view. And to everybody in every section of the city, there is "Our hill," no matter how slight its eminence, no matter whether it has a name or not. In San Francisco, a hill need be no more than a state of mind, affording a slight rise to the spirits, a fresh outlook on the life that parades in the streets below..."
The hills I climb here are as sublime as they are steep, and when I reach the top, I take solace in my proximity to the sky, and in the breeze in my hair; the feeling of being both here, and everywhere. Yet is this home? Not quite. Impermanence takes its toll these days, and I cannot help but think about all that I left behind.
What do we talk about when we talk about a home?
3 comments:
Home is a funny thing as of late. Can its definition be changed? It certainly feels like a more myriad collection of 'things' than the definition I associate(d) with it. Multiple homes has equated to living in several places at once for me and sometimes I wonder how sustainable that is. And still, I can't part with the idea of calling countless places home for at least some spell.
Regardless, as always, a pleasure to mull your musings Mademoiselle.
What keeps me runnin through the hills are thoughts of home that do not include a chasm of worry opposing the hills of joy—though this takes much practice. Its best to take comfort in our many homes, there are more to come! And to remember that they are part of our woven fabric of experience and deserve to cover our lives evenly.
I'm glad you're (returning) home!
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