The next to last post of the year

Hey, everyone.

I’m back from Chicago, where I enjoyed a lovely time with Stacy, some delicious pizza, and the hospitality of a driver who knew Chicago like the back of his hand. I was able to sign some books at B&N (and O’Hare airport!), get presents for Andres at Best Buy, and make my way safely home.

I realized I can say that now. At first this country where I live didn’t seem like home. I missed the States. I was homesick and I yearned for familiar things. But this time, when I was in Chicago, the weather seemed strange to me. People were huddled in their overcoats and they didn’t look me in the eye. They didn’t look at each other, either. If I happened to make eye contact with someone, their gaze would slide away as if we’d done something shameful.

I yearned for someplace else, where the sun shines and the bougainvillea blooms in fuchsia and royal purple upon my garden wall, where the nochebuena tree has grown proud and overshadows my front door, where the terracotta patio tiles are warm beneath my feet when I tread out to fetch the mail. This is my Mexico.

When we came speeding down the periferico late on Saturday, the cool wind whipping through the open windows and my son nestled against my side, I realized something. This country is my home now. As we passed, I took comfort in the old hacienda buildings standing side by side with modern structures of concrete and glass. I took comfort in passing the old toreo, half-demolished now. I took comfort in the light-crowned mountains rising in the distance and in the red chain of lights that came from passing cars. I belong in this land of palm trees and agave farms. If you did not know it, the most important words in the subsequent sentence are: I belong. I had to come thousands of miles from the place of my birth to find a place that fit me. I have sat in the smoky dark and listened to the ancient chant of the Temascal. I have worn ancient earth on my skin and been cleansed in the waters of Lake Catemaco. I have taken blessings from a woman on a small island and come away feeling lighter in my soul for no reason I can name.

Which is why I am posting the following email. Do not worry; I have permission.

Dear Ann: I’ve read your books and they speak to me. You seem to know what it is to feel alone. I can sense it in your characters, who fight so hard for their right to love and be loved. I don’t know much about you. Your bio seems written to mislead rather than inform. Were you ever as alone as I am? Did you ever feel like there’s no place for you? My friends and family don’t really know me. They don’t know what I think about, and I’m pretty sure they don’t care. Sometimes it seems like it’s too much work to bother with. The only thing I love is books, but they don’t love me back. I don’t know even know why I’m writing this. Just take this as a compliment from a reader and let it go at that.

Yes, and yes. I was that alone. But sometimes blessings come to us, unasked. Sometimes we find we are more than we ever dreamed we could be, if only we don’t lose the will to try. And that’s what I offer you. Dig deep and find the strength to try. Keep seeking your place in the world, and perhaps it will come to you, or you to it. The alternative is unthinkable. In time, there will be people who love and understand you. Sometimes, like cuckoos in the nest, we are not born among them, but we must quest like bards of old until our soul finds those that match it. The struggle will be worth it.