Returning Home

The home of my childhood no longer exists - I now live a life of transcendental homelessness.

The sentimental word "home" embodies a paradoxical place and time that can never be returned to. I left my home a few years ago. My childhood home changes without me, so when I return it's different. And home is the antithesis of difference - home is the security of sameness and familiarity.

So am I damned to wander in eternal homelessness?

My Homes

Enumclaw
Home is Enumclaw, Washington - an interesting name for an peculiar place. My dad moved to this small town, located at the bottom of Mt Rainier, when he was in high school. It's your typical small American town. For instance, some of the teachers my dad had while going to high school were some of our teachers. And my dad still holds a track record that my brother Tyson failed to beat. We have a Christmas parade and homecoming parade.



This is the view from my kitchen and family room. There is nothing more beautiful than the valley in Enumclaw Washington.

Jerusalem

I'm not Jewish - as my family reminds me daily - nor do I have recent ancestral ties to this land. But, I've never felt such a spiritual connection with a place. How can you feel like you're coming home when it's the first time you've been there? I believe that a piece of my identity remained buried in this land waiting patiently for me to return and exhume it.

London

Jerusalem is my love, but Britain is my soul-mate - we are a match made in heaven. The people are just like me: reserved, introverted, and sarcastic. I love everything about this city and I miss it everyday.

So what’s the problem if I have these homes?

While visiting Wales, I discovered a Welsh poet named David Abse and one of his poems describes my distress of returning home.

“The journey to Cardiff seemed less a return than a raid
On mislaid identities"

"And still I love the place for what I wanted it to be
As much as for what it unashamedly is
Now for me, a city of strangers, alien and bleak."

"No sonner than I'd arrived the other Cardiff had gone,
Smoke in the memory, those but tinned resemblances,
Where the boy I was not and the man I am not
Met, hesitated, left double footprints and walked on."

So I'm afraid that the act of returning home will destroy it.

GLORY, GLORY MAN UNITED!

It's sheer beauty.

Cristiano Ronaldo's most recent goal is one of the most brilliant goals I've ever seen. This past week Manchester United played against FC Porto for the quarter finals of the Champions League. Manchester United beat FC Porto with this amazing shot. It's a fantastic outcome for a nearly impossible win, because FC Porto's a wonderful team and the match took place on Portuguese soil.

The goal was taken six minutes into the match and shot from forty yards out! While such a distance and circumstances may seem to classify it as a "Hail Mary Shot," the execution was not hurried or by any means lucky. Ronaldo's control guided the ball into the opposite top corner of the goal, leaving the goalie no chance to stop it. Now go to this Youtube cite and watch the first minute and you will understand why this goal deserves a blog dedicated to it's brilliance.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AXjE22XF1Wg

Becky, this would be an appropriate time to sing the song I taught you: "Glory, glory Man United"

Remembering Palm Sunday

Exactly a year ago today, I lived in Jerusalem and participated in the reenactment of Christ's triumphant arrival in Jerusalem. I found this entry in my journal describing my experience. I only wish that my journal entry was as poetic and moving as the experience itself.

As we walked up Mt Scopos to the Mt of Olives, our Palestinian neighbors sat outside on their porches to become spectators of this Christian tradition of Palm Sunday. Finally reaching the Mount of Olives, we became part of the growing stream of hundreds of people. Among the congregation were several different languages and national flags waved through the air. Hundreds of Christians mingled on the Mount Olives - diverse people from all over the world became united in this one celebration.
As appropriate, I bought a green frond that I carried throughout the trek. While waiting for the procession to begin, I remained close to a Spanish band playing a catchy tune. I joined in for the chorus because it was repetitive and simple enough that even I could mumble along. Then the crowd began to walk downhill towards Jerusalem: past the Jewish cemetery, Dominus Flevit and the garden of Gethsemane. I looked behind me as I descended and all I could see were thousands of pilgrims waving green fronds and flags - it was a river of people stretching endlessly to a distant vanishing point. It was at this moment that I realized the magnitude of this event. As our journey led us to the Kidron Valley, we now had to walk uphill to reach our final destination. The sun was bright and it was crowded, so I was hot and sweaty when we reached our destination: St. Anne's Cathedral. Palm Sunday in Jerusalem...it's surreal.