Watching 'The Wizard of Oz' in a Gale

A couple of weeks ago, on a wild and windy Saturday night, I happened to catch The Wizard of Oz on television. It seems to me that it used to be traditional to televise this movie in the spring, but everything else is different now, so I guess seasonal viewing has gone the way of the dodo, too. Here's a memory for you: I can remember huddling in my child-sized rocking chair, age 7, in front of the TV, in fear of the Wicked Witch but determined to peek through my fingers if I had to so as not to miss anything. I believe I was snacking on a bowl of ice cream.

I don't even remember the last time I saw this movie, but I think it was sometime in the '80s. I came across it by accident that recent Saturday night, but when you stumble on The Wizard of Oz, it's hard to think anything else that might be on is going to be more worthwhile. This was the first time I remember watching it when weather conditions outside approximated those in the film (though those were probably straight-line winds and not a cyclone I heard ripping around). It was quite cozy to curl up in front of the TV under a dry roof and watch while the November storm roared through the trees outside. My only regret was not having any popcorn.

You come to this movie as an adult perhaps slightly less intimidated by the Wicked Witch, more inclined to be amused than frightened by certain things, and less able to recapture the sense of wonder you once felt that a cyclone could take you to such a fantastical place as Oz. But maybe there are other things that strike you much more forcibly than they used to. The movie includes a charming dedication to viewers who are "young at heart." I don't think they were just saying that. I think the makers of the film knew and expected that viewers of different ages would experience this movie with varying levels of sophistication but would all embrace the film's underlying sweetness and optimism.

What struck me the most, something I only half-understood as a child, was the fact that all three of Dorothy's companions feel they are lacking some essential quality that in truth they already possess. The Scarecrow is quite wise in his way, the Tin Man is most tender-hearted, and the Cowardly Lion, while lacking in fierceness, is more than valiant when it really comes to it. They are full of self-doubt, but traveling with Dorothy and helping her to defeat the Wicked Witch helps them to realize what they really are. The Wizard only points out to them what has already become clear.

Dorothy's conflict, an uncertainty as to whether there is a better place than the familiar family farm where she feels a bit in the way and unappreciated, was a little harder to unravel. Was she wrong to dream of a place "Over the Rainbow"? One hardly thinks so--doesn't everyone dream of someplace better at least now and then? What she learns from her sojourn in Oz is not so much that leaving home is wrong but that if one is true to herself she carries home inside of her wherever she goes. Dorothy's new friends in Oz are remarkably similar to her old friends in Kansas (in fact, they are the same). Only Auntie Em and Uncle Henry do not appear there, as if to emphasize that leaving home represents growing up and standing on one's own, starting to figure things out for oneself. The crisis that precipitates Dorothy's running away, the wish to save her dog, Toto, is completely understandable but something Auntie Em and Uncle Henry are unable to do for her. She must act on her own for that to happen.

I wrestled with Dorothy's conclusion that she would no longer look any farther than her own backyard for her heart's desire, but I think I know now what that means. Dorothy is really saying that everything she needs, and everything she will ever need, is what she already has, her own sense of self and the love of those closest to her. It's easy to make life more complicated than that, but the wisdom of owning your own power and worth is what it all comes down to, no matter where you are. I don't think the conclusion is that one shouldn't travel and reach out for better things but rather that in doing so you should understand that the purpose of every journey is to bring you closer to yourself.

The easy affection and simple loyalty Dorothy and her friends have for each other had me a little teary-eyed at the end (sniff, sniff). It's much easier to take those things for granted as a child; the true value of these qualities only becomes apparent when you're older. As a little girl, I always felt content at the end of the movie, satisfied with the conclusion of a story well told, but I don't know that I ever felt like crying, so that was new to this viewing. There are some who would likely say that a world of such uncomplicated affection as Dorothy's is just as much a fantasy as any place "Over the Rainbow," but I think The Wizard of Oz is meant to be an antidote to such cynicism.

Ask yourself: Is there nobody you would risk your life for in battling the Wicked Witch of the West? Really? But why? Why would you do such a thing, why put yourself out like that, with the world being such a dreary place and all? What? What was that? Love? Love? What kind of a silly idea is that?

You really are getting sentimental in your old age, and Wordplay commends you.

Wordplay Takes on: Water Stains

I bet you there's a contingent of readers out there somewhere saying, "Wordplay, this mythology is all well and good, but what about the 'everyday life' part? Have you ever once given us any sound, practical advice that we could actually use in daily living?" Now that you mention it, I'm not sure I have. In my defense, I have to say that I didn't think household hints, recipes, and the 10 best ways to organize your desk were in my line exactly. I assumed they were better handled by someone else, but maybe not.

Well, a myth specialist has to deal with the same little problems as everybody else (and maybe more--I can tell you for a fact I've had more than my share of aggravation when it comes to strange neighbors, uncivil behavior from random members of the public, and travel nuisances, for example), but I've written about of all that before. Besides, I'm guessing it would be better to "cut my teeth" in the practical hints department on something I have a proven remedy for, so I'm going to tell you how I successfully got a water stain out of an upholstered chair, the very one I'm sitting in now, in fact. And before you ask, yes, this too has a mythic component. It's in the spirit of Hestia, whose season we're in as the colder weather pushes us indoors and thoughts turn to hearth and home, that I gladly give you this advice.

First, some background, vis-a-vis, how the water stain came to be there. It's because of an accident in which the glass I was drinking from slipped when I was putting it on a coaster. Unfortunately, this beverage was as colorful and stain-intensive as it's possible to be (a mixed-berry smoothie), so the spot was about as bad as bad can be, almost like red wine on the fabric. I'd never had to deal with this situation before, so of course, I looked it up online and found a trove of ideas, the simplest of which involved blotting and mild dish detergent. I actually didn't think it would work, but it did, after a little persistence. Problem was, this treatment left a water stain that was much bigger, if less vivid, than the original trouble spot.

Now, don't distract me by wondering if the accident could have been a Jungian "slip" of some kind. I'm not going down that road. Suffice it to say there was a honking big water stain on the back of the chair. The chair isn't placed so that the stain really showed, but I knew it was there. I knew any remedy I tried would be risky, since I'd seen several warnings about checking for an item's upholstery code, which is supposed to tell you which treatments will and won't work, before starting. If my chair has such a code, I couldn't find it, so I just tried to figure it out on my own, with the result that I solved one problem but was left with another one.

The original accident happened quite a while ago, and not long after, I tried to remove the water stain by misting it with white vinegar. This might have worked if I'd been able to follow it up with steam, but I couldn't get my iron to direct steam onto the upholstery without actually touching it, so I had to abandon that method. Every now and then, I'd look at the chair and think, "I wish there was something I could do about that water stain." At some point, I looked up additional remedies, one of which caught my eye by stating that it would probably work even if the stain had been allowed to languish for a while. That seemed hopeful, but for one reason or another (the feeling that further attempts at cleaning might only make things worse being paramount) I didn't get around to it until recently.

Here's where I'll get a little philosophical: sometimes, when you can't do anything in a major way about truth in advertising, the downfall of American cinema, or bizarre neighbors, it helps to accomplish some little, concrete thing, even if it matters only to you. The remedy I had in mind involved carpet cleaner, which I already had, so one afternoon when there was lots of light, I hauled the chair over to the window, sprayed it lightly, and blotted carefully with a damp (not wet) white cloth. The idea was to avoid saturating the upholstery and to lift the stain off with the cloth. The instructions said to apply cleaner to a large area, not just the stain itself, so I treated the entire back of the chair.

Here's where another virtue came to the fore: patience. It really didn't look like anything was happening at first, although certainly the chair didn't look any worse. After the upholstery was dry, I reapplied cleaner and blotted again. I let the chair sit overnight, and then treated it a few more times, letting it dry between treatments. By the second to last time I did it, I could see that it was making a difference. Even in sunlight, I couldn't see the stain anymore, and the back of the chair looked the same as the front. I finished the process with a thorough vacuuming. Success!

Now, it may sound like a little thing, but I can tell you it was really satisfying to be able to solve even such a simple problem. Hestia would be proud (Heloise, too). My heart is a little bit lighter every time I look at the chair, which I bought at the same time I bought the desk I'm working on, just before I started my dissertation. I did some dissertation work sitting at this desk, which no doubt accounts for my pride at being able to return the chair to tip-top condition. Come to think of it, though, I did most of my writing while sitting on the couch, and it has a small water stain under the cushion where I tried to remove a spot of chocolate once. Perhaps the same treatment will work there, too, but right now, I'm still enjoying my success with the chair, so that will be a project for another day.

So there it is, how to remove a water stain from an upholstered chair. Now you can't say I never gave you anything. To all people of good will and stout heart out there, may all your problem-solving end this completely and this well, whether or not it involves a chair.

Demeter's in the Kitchen, and She Has a Blender

I seem to be preoccupied, in my recent Facebook postings, with food. I think there are several reasons for this. For one, it's winter, and most of us are in hibernation, especially with the kind of deep freeze we've had this year. You can't always hit the sidewalks for a carefree stroll in the sun (especially when they're covered with ice), but you can always put a casserole in or bake some bread.

In just the last month, I've written posts about baking bread and cinnamon rolls, cooking chicken stew with escarole, making marinara and Bechamel sauce for lasagna, fixing Spanish rice, baking chocolate Valentine's cookies, re-creating a ravioli and broccoli dish I had years ago in Somerville, Mass., and trying to figure out how my grandmother made cornbread. Unlike other things that might eat up your day, a well-prepared meal can rarely be considered a waste of time. My only regret is that my circle of college friends, whom I used to enjoy cooking with, is now too far-flung to make group dinners possible.

OK, so it's winter, but I believe there's more to my food-mindedness than that. In addition to my own birthday, both my mother's and my father's birthdays occur in midwinter, so I've naturally been thinking more about the two of them than usual. Inextricably tied up with memories of childhood are memories of foodways and family meals. How I regret not finding out how my mother made certain things, like pancakes and meatloaf! How I wish I could be in my grandmother's kitchen again, eating her fried chicken. How well I remember the taste of a grilled cheese sandwich and Campbell's Tomato Soup, a common childhood lunch. How much fun it would be to prank my dad on his birthday one more time by putting hot pepper in the Jello!

If I were to self-analyze, I'd say that many of my kitchen adventures represent self-mothering, an attempt to take care of myself through culinary means. Gridlock in Washington? That's OK, here's a blueberry smoothie. Emperor has no clothes? Never mind, have some stew. Yet another inane conversation overheard in Starbucks? Time to make biscuits. Snarky relative? There's a recipe for Chicken Piccata around here somewhere.

I can tell that it really is self-nurturing and not self-indulgence by the judiciousness with which I (usually) weigh what I'd like to have with what seems most nutritious. I grew up in the meat and potatoes era, but I've branched out: I'm always looking for new ways to fix vegetables, including some I'm not used to using. I think I shocked some old friends the other day when I announced I making the potato soup I've been making for 30 years with celery instead of leaving it out as I've always done. "But you hate celery!" I heard, almost immediately. It's true, I always did; but then I vacationed in New Orleans, where the food was so divine and sometimes had celery in it, and there was that yummy tuna dill sandwich they used to have at the library that included celery, and so . . . there I was at the grocery store on Tuesday, eyeing celery on sale for $.77 and wondering why the bunches had to be quite so big. (The soup experiment hasn't gone down yet, but I can't imagine it will use more than a couple of stalks, which could mean ants on logs in my near future.)

You may not believe it, but I also have less of a tendency toward snacking and unrestrained dessert foraging than I used to have. That's not to say I've dropped it altogether, but I'll give you an example. I heard about a new type of Ben & Jerry's ice cream yesterday that apparently includes two different flavors in a single pint along with a core of something delectable like raspberry jam or fudge. My most immediate thought was, "Wow, that's extreme!" instead of "I have to see if Kroger has it!" (I will have to see if Kroger has it, but it wasn't my very first thought. See what I mean?)

So I can't, at the moment, do anything about unemployment, political intransigence, ignorance, incivility, dishonesty, or the rampant failure of so many schools to teach information literacy, but I can at least try to feed myself, which is saying a lot in a world where way too many people still go to bed hungry. We could all use an infusion of Demeter, which is probably why I'm so preoccupied with her. When I think about my parents, I think they'd be pleased that I invested the money a couple of years ago in all the kitchen basics I'd never bothered with before. Fake it till you make it, I can hear them saying. Fake it till you make it. And by the way, your biscuits are better than they used to be.

Kentucky Is the New Black

The first time it happened to me, I was in the soup aisle at Kroger. I was going about my business when I caught a glimpse of someone I thought I recognized and, for a second, was ready to say hi to a classmate. A moment later, the reality hit me: "I'm in Lexington, so that can't be someone from Pacifica." That was the first of many instances where worlds collided as I attempted to balance a working life and residence in Kentucky with the long commute to graduate school in California. Since then I've had to re-orient myself many times, placing myself in the proper time zone and locale when someone who reminded me of someone else gave me a split second of uncertainty as to my actual place in space and time.

I had been eying California from afar for years, wondering if I could ever make a life there, so I was really bemused by the ways it was becoming a significant presence in my day-to-day life while I remained in place in Lexington -- though it is not exactly accurate to say that I remained in place, because things were already changing. I had a dream right after starting school in which I was sleeping out on a balcony, up on a cliff overlooking the sea. Moonlight and then sunlight shone down on me, and I felt alive and exhilarated; I knew I was in California. I felt perfectly at ease in the dream, a moment of pure bliss that was succeeded by concern as I realized that the sea was rising fast and I needed someone to help me move my bed inside. My interpretation of the dream was that I had taken a definite step in a direction that my psyche approved but that I had a great deal of anxiety (not shared by the other characters in my dream, whose attention I could not get). My concern was not so much with drowning as with ruining the mattress.

Somebody I know once described Lexington as a "safe" place (compared to the great unknown). The familiarity is both comforting and, at times, stifling. Years ago, a restlessness so intense would come over me, often on a Friday night, that I would literally drive around for hours, picking familiar and unfamiliar neighborhoods with warrens of streets to get lost in, turning the radio to a rock and roll station, and looking for something -- adventure, novelty, occurrences out of the ordinary -- that I was not likely to find, at least in the places I was looking. It was actually a sudden decision, ten years ago, to spend a weekend in L.A, a rather unexpected act that took even my breath away, that started to inch me, little by little, toward an ongoing relationship with a place that in some ways seemed like an unlikely draw.

On the other hand, I'm a writer, and a writer is always looking for new ideas and experiences. Although people kept telling me it was Northern California that I should really be looking at, that L.A. was too shallow and uncultured, I discovered a fascination with the city that I couldn't talk myself out of. I have generally been well treated in L.A.; except for their behavior on the freeway, people seem easy-going and friendly (someone put money in my parking meter one time in Venice, and that has never happened to me at home). I am not an aspiring actress or screenwriter, so I haven't experienced the rejection that probably grinds down many transplants. I am overwhelmed by the effort it takes to get from one place to another, even just to park the car. The size of the place is daunting. But I have been amazed at the richness of cultural offerings, from the Getty Center to Disney Hall, and the sunshine is wonderful.

Yes, I am put off by the great emphasis on surface appearance and image that seems so prevalent there. On the other hand, my training as a mythologist tells me that images are often richly compounded representations of much that lies behind them. Movies are carriers of the collective imagination, and the film industry, often derided for a lack of seriousness, is actually an indicator and curator of the things that are most important in our culture.

In some ways, I've had one foot, or at least a big toe, in California for quite a while -- but in other ways it still seems like a million miles away. Last time I was there, though, an unforeseen development gave me a taste of home that I hadn't expected. Because who would ever have expected that homey, folksy Kentucky would become Hollywood trendy . . . but that's what's happened! Everywhere I looked, from the sides of buses to the sides of buildings, was the image of the hip as can be star of Justified, which takes place in Harlan County (and Lexington) and features a somewhat more colorful segment of the population than I can lay claim to myself. Nonetheless, references to familiar places and things abound, and the themes of violence, kinship, the difficulty of leaving home (and of coming back), and the conflict between regions and attitudes are both realistic and strangely inflected in a Hollywood accent.

This could be a sign that I might find myself more at home in L.A. than I could have expected. I might be the new "It" Girl, with my slight Kentucky drawl and name-dropping references to Ale-8-One (bottled in my hometown). On the other hand, consider the chances for disorientation. Last night, I was taking a closer look at a past episode for local references when I noticed low mountains in the background, obviously meant to be the hills of Eastern Kentucky. If you weren't paying much attention, the illusion was almost complete. But I recognized the broad, creased surfaces of the mountains surrounding L.A.: California mountains just don't look like the ones in Kentucky, which are darker and more somber to my eye. What I thought I was seeing was not in fact what was really there.

I've wondered for a while what a cross between California and Kentucky would look like. It might take some doing to bring two such different places together, but it looks like the popular imagination is already running off ahead of me. Maybe by the time I get there, there will be a local source for Ruth Hunt's bourbon balls, an art-house theater as hip as The Kentucky, and a porch swing with my name on it.

Deconstructing Raylan

One time a friend made fun of me for going to San Francisco for a bluegrass festival. When you're from the Bluegrass State, it is pretty funny to fly to the Bay Area to watch people play the banjo. I was thinking about that last night while chilling in my L.A. hotel room, watching the program Justified. I've heard a lot about the show but had never seen it because I don't have cable at home (this is not a matter of Kentucky being primitive, just a choice on my part). Justified is a fictitious account of the life and times of a U.S. marshal in Eastern Kentucky and is peppered with references to Frankfort, Lexington, and other familiar places.

I know that people from the region are often sensitive to the way they are depicted in the media, but I haven't heard any complaints about Justified. That surprises me a little since the show is full of nasty, violent people involved in drugs, moonshine, murder, feuding, and other shenanigans. In the course of just two episodes, the handsome young marshal, Raylan Givens, was shot, hung up in a tree and beaten, thrown through a glass wall, and forced to play a deadly gun game with a criminal while his (girlfriend?/ex-wife?) gave the countdown. It's enough to make you wonder why anyone would want to be a marshal, but Raylan seems to take it all in stride, with a gleam in his eye and a soft-spoken but ready quip for every occasion.

People from Kentucky are used to being stereotyped, and some of the characters in the program don't stray too far from the tradition of stock characters that stand in for "hillbillies." On the other hand, they seemed fairly creditable to me as realistic people, if you consider the fairly narrow swath of Kentuckians who are definite hard-core criminals. I didn't see many people in the show who reminded me of people I know, but Justified really covers a different demographic. 

For me, one thing that did interfere with the realism was the accents. People from Kentucky definitely have them, but they aren't like the ones in the show. Hollywood can get the most exotic Eurasian accent down to a science, but for some reason they can't do Kentucky. You'd think they would ask George Clooney or Johnny Depp for pointers on verisimilitude, but no -- Hollywood Kentuckians always have a carefully exaggerated, slightly belabored sound, like the young, bespectacled bluegrass band I once heard in a San Francisco coffeehouse, playing folk tunes with the earnest quality of a string quartet.

I was expecting to like Justified, but my reaction to it was complicated by my dislike of violence. The entire premise of the program is violence, and in that it resembles all the other television crime shows, no matter the setting. One thing that's different about Justified is that the main character, Raylan, is depicted as somewhat enmeshed in the culture of violence, since he is working in his own hometown and has long-standing connections there. He is not an outsider but an insider.

I'm familiar with the myths and legends of Kentucky as an insider who has always felt like an outsider. I spent seven of my growing-up years away from Kentucky and came back at the very awkward brink of adolescence, learning just how difficult it can be to fit oneself into the tightly knit social fabric of the culture. I have never felt that I succeeded completely in doing it, which may be why I have a hard time knowing where "home" actually is. Watching Raylan banter easily and comfortably with his boss, his acquaintances, and the bad guys (the latter two categories being somewhat indistinguishable), I did not see a kindred spirit, but rather a dyed-in-the-wool Kentucky boy (albeit an exceptionally good-looking one). Even though Raylan has returned to Kentucky after living in south Florida (just as I did), his natural way of dealing with the people and their habits is something I'm still working on myself.

There is a tradition that a Cherokee chief described Kentucky as a "dark and bloody ground" to Daniel Boone. The creators of Justified have taken that appellation seriously in their depiction of the state, or at least a particular part of it. The stories I hear of nepotism, corruption, and violence in Eastern Kentucky (and those portrayed in the show) grow out of the same culture that has produced a rich brew of folk music, literature, and other arts. I can't fault this show for emphasizing violence when all the other cop shows do the same thing. But what I would find interesting is a show that explores not only the folklore of this complicated place but the very real and difficult struggles of people just trying to fit in. Instead of Justified, call it Satisfied. Or maybe Dissatisfied.

Practical Jokes from the Universe

Yesterday was really pretty nice. I woke up to the sound of rain and distant thunder, and it felt so cozy that I stayed in bed listening until I fell asleep again and woke up rested an hour or so later. The rest was a typical Saturday: yoga, lunch, writing, and shopping for chocolate and groceries. I even got a pedicure at the little nail spa run by that nice family and emerged with shiny toenails in a lovely shade that one of the little girls picked out for me. I was feeling pretty good after all that.

So I have no explanation for what happened today. I was planning to get some things done at home and then go to a movie, but it didn't turn out like that. It all started when I decided to wash a couple of loads of laundry. I had taken one load to the laundry room and was on my way back for the second one when I put out my hand to type in the security code on the front door and suddenly could not remember it. I have been typing this code in every day for 10 years, usually without thinking about it, but suddenly it was just gone. I could remember the first digit and the last but not the middle part.

This had happened once or twice before but not in a long time. I thought at first that it would come back to me if I waited a minute or so, but it didn't. I typed in what I thought was the right code several times, to no avail. Then I became convinced that I was just off by a single digit, so I tried various combinations without getting anywhere. Fifteen minutes went by and I was still locked out, so I decided to go back to the laundry room, wait for the washer to stop, and put the clothes in the dryer. Not thinking about it for a few minutes would almost certainly make the code come back to me, or so I thought.

I did all this and came back, but I still couldn't remember. By now, I was feeling less and less certain I knew what it was. I thought of ringing a neighbor's doorbell and just saying I'd forgotten it, but aside from feeling silly I was also reluctant to disturb someone on Sunday morning. After another frustrating quarter hour or so, someone came by and I followed them in. I was now back in my apartment but still had no clue, so I felt almost as trapped inside as I had outside. I knew I had the code written on a piece of paper at one time, but after searching the kitchen drawer, I had to admit that the piece of paper was probably long gone.

I decided to wedge something in the side door so I could go out and come back, praying that no one would remove it before I had a chance to throw my second load in. I finally ate a late breakfast, then went over to put my load in the dryer. I was so rattled that I didn't realize until I closed the dryer door that I didn't know where my quarters were. I thought I had the little envelope in my hand when I went to the laundry room, but they were nowhere in sight. I went back to my apartment and looked all over.

Now I was missing the means to get into my building as well as the means to dry a sopping wet load of sheets and towels. It wasn't quite as bad as the Fellowship of the Ring trying to figure out the password to get into Moria (no sinister gurgling lake at my back or ravening wolves), but there is something disquieting about being locked out of your home. I started to feel strange hanging around the entrance, as if I shouldn't be there. The only bright spot was that I kept noticing my pedicure and thinking that at least my nails looked great. 

I went back to the laundry room to hunt around for those darn quarters. If I could at least get the dryer going, that would be something . . . and sure enough, this time, I started moving things in the dryer and found the folded envelope at the bottom. I had thrown it in along with the load.

Having solved that mystery, I thought I would feel better if I took a shower and changed clothes. After that, the last load was dry, so I brought everything back, made up the bed, and put everything else away. It was now mid-afternoon, and I was still codeless (and clueless), but I decided I wouldn't be a prisoner in my own apartment and would go about my business in the hope that the code would reappear in my memory by the time I got back. 

As it happened, a young man from my building was coming out as I was standing at the door, gazing at the lock as if it contained the mysteries of the universe. I asked him, "What is our code?" and he told me what it was, saying he hoped they hadn't changed it. I said "No, I'm just typing it in wrong" . . . and then I tried it, and it worked. Once he said it, it sounded right, but I'm not sure when I would have remembered it on my own. It was like I had gone on a trip and been away so long that I had forgotten where I left my key. Greatly relieved, I went out to the car to run my errands -- but not before writing the code down.

Perhaps Jung would say there are few accidents. I wouldn't say that everything that happens has a deeper meaning, but it's hard not to muse over such an odd occurrence. I was writing about mazes yesterday afternoon, and the sense of being lost; the experience of being locked out was a lot like ending up in a blind alley. I won't say that this was a case of unconsciously acting out a subject I've been preoccupied with, but that's one possibility. Stranger things have happened.

Aphrodite Rising; Birthday Wishes

I'm in California, tucked into my room at the inn in time to celebrate my birthday with a gas-burning fireplace and a fancy bathroom. (I've never had a bathroom with a daybed in it, and I can't tell you how charming it is. If I rise out of the jetted spa like Aphrodite and feel the need for beauty sleep, that bed is right there. Same thing if I get the vapours while brushing my teeth.) I feel more like a guest in an English country house than a customer; it's like I'm staying with the Bennets at Longbourne. When I got here a few hours ago, the innkeeper greeted me by name and wished me a happy birthday. I got a tour of the house and was shown to my room, where the lamps were already lit and classical music was playing softly. There were cookies on a plate and a card on the little rose table addressed to me.

That's why I picked this place for a few days of vacation, because I thought it would be homey. For the first time in my life, I have completely unpacked my suitcase for a hotel stay.

I flew out to attend a conference at my school, where I saw friends and reconnected with my community of mythologists. It had been six months since I was there, but when I drove through the foothills to campus Thursday evening, it was like I had only been gone a week. I visited both of our campuses, where almost every corner was packed with memories of friends, teachers, animated conversations, long walks, and work accomplished. It felt like part of me had been there all along, waiting, and got up to meet me when I came back.

A theme that came up in numerous talks with friends over the last few days was the archetype of home, which may (or may not) seem strange since most of us were far from our actual homes. I had lunch today with three women, and it turned out all of us were yearning at some level to find our place in the sun, though there were good reasons for not making changes right now. I have wondered for a long time if California might be that place for me. Visiting is not the same as living here, I'm only too aware. I've spent a lot of time out here looking around, wondering how I would feel about this beautiful place if I lived here all the time.

As it happened, I stopped this afternoon to visit a town I came close to living in seven years ago. I had dropped in to visit on the way to the conference and was so intrigued by what I found that I stopped again on the way back. What I remembered as a very quiet place, almost dead on the weekend, was buzzing with people and energy. I found a Main Street on a human scale, numerous shops and restaurants (all open on a Sunday), people relaxing in sidewalk cafes, music pouring out of competing venues, even a place to buy chocolates. The friendly baristas at the local Starbucks wished me an enthusiastic "Happy Birthday" when I went in for my free drink; I sat and read for a while, with a window on the passing scene.

I went into a store I remembered visiting seven years ago, a shop full of angel gifts. The same shopkeeper was still there, a lively lady who just happened to be telling other customers about a local church labyrinth. I told her about my dissertation, and she grew even more excited, telling me about her experiences with the labyrinth and those of people she knew. She gave me her card and asked me to email her and tell her what happened to me when I walked it.

I followed her very good directions and got to the church not long before sunset. The gate was unlocked like she said, so I went in and gathered my thoughts. It was a very soft, somehow feminine labyrinth, in shades of rose and pink stone. I walked slowly, enjoying the meditative rhythm and the quiet. When I got to the center, I paused for a few minutes, thinking about all my unanswered questions. Then I turned and faced each of the four directions, noting what I saw there (I will tell you: a fountain and a tree, a hospital, a set of double doors, and a light next to a tree). When I left, the sky was streaked with the pinks and violets of a beautiful sunset.

Will the turning of my life take me to that spot again? I don't know, but I'm interested.

Naturally, it's no accident that I'm writing about wanderers turning this way and that. Theseus, Odysseus, Dante, Lancelot, Ishmael, William -- they're all looking for something and may or may not end up where they began. For some of them, the end result might be, as T.S. Eliot says, "to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time." Others will land in some different country, or perhaps never find True North. I hope the latter isn't true for me; I made a birthday wish (which I wrote down and ritualized) that I would find my right place and be wise enough to know it when I see it.

Birthday wishes have extra mana, right? Especially if sealed with chocolate.