The Los Angeles suburb in which I rest my bones was envisaged in the early 1980's by developers of wealth and endless access to mega-bank loans. Spacious homes on square patches of lawn sprang up, and the American dream appeared almost overnight: a squeaky clean neighborhood with towheaded kids, SUV's, and pets galore; a vision realized by the lucky few of mostly caucasion persuasion.
The fickle hand of fate swept my favorite cousin into a nest right in the town where I grew up - a New York City suburb. Contrary to my west coast environs, almost nothing has changed in Mamaroneck, named for Chief Mamaroneck shortly after the white settlers obliterated him and his kind to live by this sheltered harbor of the Atlantic.
The same Miller's Toy Store, the same Strauch jewelry store, the same Mercurio's Italian deli to name but a few. These hangers on were landmarks of my childhood, fascinating the five year old who turned into the ten year old who turned into a 17 year old who left for college and never looked back.
And now for the strange part of this tale. No nostalgia gripped my soul, no longing to remeet the lovers and friends of yesteryear. I came back here wanting to feel something alive about my past but the memories had no charge, positive or negative. Actually, the positive experience was that my brain tissue was capable of calling up so much detail about the childhood haunts.
Then I reflected: this pilgrimage to the place of my youth held no energetic resonance. The girl that grew up here is not the same person anymore, nor will she even exist on the planet in 50 years. The only place I ever thrilled to was a monastery on a mountain top in Bhutan where a 14th century sage wrote down his wisdom in 26 volumes, to be handed down through the ages.
Blood ties bind us together in genetically programmed tribal nuances. Connections of spirit, energy, consciousness are our true heritage. And I suppose that the lucky ones find it right on their doorstep.
The fickle hand of fate swept my favorite cousin into a nest right in the town where I grew up - a New York City suburb. Contrary to my west coast environs, almost nothing has changed in Mamaroneck, named for Chief Mamaroneck shortly after the white settlers obliterated him and his kind to live by this sheltered harbor of the Atlantic.
The same Miller's Toy Store, the same Strauch jewelry store, the same Mercurio's Italian deli to name but a few. These hangers on were landmarks of my childhood, fascinating the five year old who turned into the ten year old who turned into a 17 year old who left for college and never looked back.
And now for the strange part of this tale. No nostalgia gripped my soul, no longing to remeet the lovers and friends of yesteryear. I came back here wanting to feel something alive about my past but the memories had no charge, positive or negative. Actually, the positive experience was that my brain tissue was capable of calling up so much detail about the childhood haunts.
Then I reflected: this pilgrimage to the place of my youth held no energetic resonance. The girl that grew up here is not the same person anymore, nor will she even exist on the planet in 50 years. The only place I ever thrilled to was a monastery on a mountain top in Bhutan where a 14th century sage wrote down his wisdom in 26 volumes, to be handed down through the ages.
Blood ties bind us together in genetically programmed tribal nuances. Connections of spirit, energy, consciousness are our true heritage. And I suppose that the lucky ones find it right on their doorstep.
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