The body’s memory is amazing.
We've had some uncharacteristically beautiful weather here in Seattle the last few days. Crystal clear blue skies and bright sunshine are reminding everyone that the gloom of winter will eventually end, and it feels wonderful.
It's a double-edged sword for me, however. We’ve spent nearly every May for the last eight years in some part of England. Now, whenever the sun starts to break through the dreariness and I begin to recall the hope of spring, I ache to return to England even more than usual.
To say I miss it doesn’t begin to do it justice. It’s a physical yearning, making me feel unsettled and misplaced at home. I'm supposed to be there. Spring is coming, and spring isn't Seattle. Spring is aging castles and red phone booths, chalky cliffs and rapeseed fields, art museums and afternoon tea, buskers on the South Bank and running to catch the Tube, eating way too many fish and chips and dodging rainstorms... I miss it horribly, like an old friend.
How is it that a place can break your heart?