beyond the weather

Last night we drove up near the San Francisco airport and met up with a long-lost cousin of Jon's . He's visiting from Warsaw, Indiana with his mother and daughter. He has no exposure whatsoever to the Bay Area, or the West as a whole, except for a few small doses of LA. He asked some questions about how life is here, and what it was like for us to move from a small town in the Midwest to Silicon Valley. Those of you who know me have no doubt listened to me describe certain differences between life here and in the Midwest. It is a matter that, after living here for over 6 years, still colors my everyday experiences. I have often wondered if it is an unhealthy fixation I have, but the more I dwell on the reality of how that move changed my life, the more I realize that it involved a trauma that I have yet to fully recover from. None of this is not to say that I regret moving here, or that I dislike California. Any major life change brings some form and level of loss, and this particular turning of seasons was quite significant.



For the first 21 years of my life, this was home. In some ways, it still is. In this house my ideas about how life and relationships should look first began to take shape, unaware of that though I surely was. It's true that the number of times I saw a cloudless blue sky could be counted on my right hand, and there were no exciting places to go out with friends. But small, boring towns tend to have a high concentration of solid relationships, because really, there is not much to do except to be with each other. I relish my memories of being snowed in with my sisters, playing the "smelling game" and making hilarious and sometimes bizarre home movies. I loved having friends over to our house. A few phone calls were made, and the house would be full within the hour. Many evenings I could be found in the kitchen with three or four friends, hosting our own private cooking show. All we needed was a few frilly aprons and a box of macaroni and cheese, and we were satisfied and completely entertained. These were the days when the term "traffic" meant 15 cars at a stop light by the mall. In the sticky, humid days of summer, we laid in the sun in the back yard and cooled ourselves in the four-foot-deep pool assembled by my parents. When we got hungry, we'd just hop out of the pool and grab a handful of fresh raspberries growing along the side of the old sheep barn. In the evenings, the thunderstorms were our entertainment. We sat expectantly on our front porch, allowing the clouds and lightning to startle us once again, though we'd seen a thousand others in summers past.



This my home now, on an unusually cloudy day. It is set in a lovely little town, within 20 minutes of our favorite places to hang out. I love that during our time here we have met people from all over the world, and have access to nearly every kind of international food we could possibly want. We can go hiking in the hills, nap on the beach, see obscure independent films, and catch any band on tour. We spend our Saturday mornings sampling fresh fruit and baked goods at our local Farmer's Market, and walk home as the morning fog eases back and lets the sun warm our faces. But something feels painfully empty about this life I've described. I can easily distract myself from it by getting caught up in the typical Silicon Valley philosophy of life, making my days completely full with tasks, watching TV, and creating lists of purchases I want to make. The culture here is largely one of isolation, consumption, and activity. It is not easy to resist this current that pulls everyone along . . . shoulder to shoulder and completely alone. So how do I reconcile who I am with how people are here and not forfeit my passions and ideals? Am I making any sense?