What Brings Me Home

"So, what brings you to Hawaii, then?"

It was the question of the week, asked occasionally to those we met along the way. Most were obviously on vacation, as we were, soaking up the heat after months of winter in Minnesota, Oregon, or Alberta. We didn't hassle them, because their mission made sense to us. It made sense like it makes sense for my parents not to heat their house so well, but then to jump into the hot tub in the backyard at intervals throughout the winter, whenever the wool socks and sweaters no longer keep them warm enough. We were all just warming up, a dip into quiet and sunny days before plunging back into the dripping end of winter back home.

But there were others, those who didn't spend the daylight hours lounging on the beach, as we did. They did exciting things during the day, like spear fishing and sea kayaking. Nights they spent in restaurants and bars, both serving and frequenting, blithely advertising each other's events and attending each other's parties. "Laid back" seemed a bit too hurried a modifier for these extended visitors. Most had come from the mainland, and most had not been around for more than a few years.

"So, what brings you to Hawaii?"

The answers were enthusiastic but vague. "Well, this, you know?" most shrugged, waving their arms in broad, sweeping gestures at the whale-filled sea, glowing orange in the sunset, or at the lush green mountains, or at the miles of soft sand. "This."

How nice, I thought, to have such a ready visual to go with your life's purpose. I wondered what I would point to if such a question were directed to me. "What brings you to Seattle?" Or, rather, "What keeps you in Seattle?" As much as I love them, as much as they make this place feel like home, I would not sweep up the mountains, the trees, and the rain in my arms as my reasons. It would take some explaining.

This afternoon, the first day back from mid-winter break. I am sleepy today, but only because this was the first 5:00 AM I've seen in a while. Other than that, I am blissfully rested. I was ready to come home from Hawaii, ready as people never claim to be.

I am enjoying the way that the sun falls into my empty classroom, looking once again at the paper on the floor, the posters that I need to send home with my students, the tablecloth that is already askew on the table in the front. A colleague comes in and says, with a sigh of appreciation, "What a pleasant room!" It is pleasant, I think with a shrug. Pleasant like home. And for once, I'm affectionately replaying the amusing bits of the day instead of the harrowing ones, returning to them like favorite pages of the good books I read on vacation.

And I think, Room 120 would be somewhere I would point out in my reasons for being in Seattle. Not the only place, of course, but one of them, anyway. If I could magically show my Hawaiian friends, and they saw this place, maybe they wouldn't believe me. It's not as clear an argument as dramatic duo of sun and sea. But it's a picture, for me, worth returning to. Returning home to try again, knowing that spring is coming and that the season behind us might have been the darkest for a while.