The alarm went off at an ung_dly hour. That’s my sign, usually, that I’m going home, because going home always means taking odd-hour flights to get as much time there as possible. And that morning, for the first time in ages, I would go alone. I had already packed, making sure I had all the little things I knew would mean so much to me for the return. I didn’t want to miss anything, didn’t want to pass the right opportunity to release the hurt.
I kissed the cats, each curled in their favorite spots, on their sleepy furry heads, whispered that I loved them, and swept to the airport in the dark. Most travelers awaiting the flight looked sleepy. Our flight would take off well before the sun rose, but I was on high alert, nervous to be doing this alone for the first time in so long. I handed the ground attendant my boarding pass, checked my ring to make sure it was still there, and boarded the plane to San Francisco. I landed that morning in a place where I knew myself to be legally equal to every other person in that state. I checked my ring again as I deplaned, painfully conscious of its symbolic value.
I turned onto the 101 north in a rented car. I hadn’t told any of my friends on the coast that I would be there. This trip had to be solo. I had work to do. I saw the first sign that said "Redwood Highway", and blinked away a tear. Past a sleepy San Francisco, across the Golden Gate, north into the hills of Marin County, I drove in golden winter sunshine – it was a sign of the good to come, I told myself.
The sun shone brightly all the way north, but the farther north I drove, the more I struggled to control my emotions. I felt like I was literally dying to be home. The 101 gets curvy in Mendocino County, and no matter how strong the draw is, you just don’t hurry on that road. Not if you want to enter heaven alive.
Just as you approach the county line, the highway opens out over the south fork of the Eel River. And there, on a bridge that flies out across the river, is the sign: HUMBOLDT COUNTY LINE. I pulled the car over and walked out onto the bridge, and stood at the county line, staring out across the river valley. I smelled the fresh wind, I let the sun warm my face. I snapped a picture of myself in the sun under the sign as a remembrance. Then I got back behind the wheel, and drove across the bridge. The moment I crossed the line, the dam broke, and I couldn’t stop the tears. It was simultaneously grief and relief. I hadn’t been home since I married my husband eighteen months prior; hadn’t been home for the Prop 8 vote, hadn’t been home for the court decision, hadn’t been home for the tsunami threats, hadn’t been home for the earthquake. It felt like I’d abandoned my mothers and fathers as wave after wave of disaster swept toward the place my heart lives. "I’m sorry it took so long," I whispered through the tears. "I bolted home as soon as I could."
I pulled over in a grove of giants and hid, leaned against one of my beloved redwoods, and cried into the rough bark until I felt I could drive safely. Then I drove into the heart of the county, and pulled into my hiding spot near the Bay with an hour to spare before dark.
The next morning was a Sunday. I got up early and walked through a pelting rain onto Samoa Beach to reacquaint myself with the Pacific. I had arrived just between storms, and so my arrival was blessed with massive waves rolling in with the fog. The ocean air refreshed me, reminded me of how good home feels. I went into town and drove around, reliving a few memories, stopping for the coffee I live on when I’m behind the redwood curtain. I rolled back into the hills with the fog and the rain, weaving in and out of redwoods, rolling past places I love, seeing myself again without him.
For the first time in years, I went to church. I chose the early service, so it would be small and I could pass unnoticed, which I did. During the sermon I silently watched the fog play among the redwoods while I savored the feeling of being in a familiar place among welcoming people. I felt safe.
That afternoon, I returned to a very familiar grove where a triple-trunked redwood stands in a way that has always felt like an altar to me. It was here that I married my husband. And I had returned home, in part, for this very moment. We had married on a Sunday, early in the afternoon, and I chose that time to kneel before the same altar. I placed in a cross before the trees two white ribbons from our wedding invitations. Atop them, I placed a sprig of redwood. Around that, I scattered the pressed blue larkspur petals that would have graced notes and cards we never sent. I checked for my ring one last time, and pulled it from my finger with a heavy sadness, and placed it atop the redwood sprig at the center of the ribbons. Over this, I repeated our wedding vows alone, and then said, "Goodbye, love."
I let go.
That was the point at which I began to look back with love. I did that the rest of the day, and felt a weight lifted, even though the rain came and went, as did the tears. But I ate in favorite haunts and wandered in favorite shops and parks as myself, not a man haunted by a failed (some would say abusive) marriage. The next morning, I woke to sun streaming strongly through my window – in February? in Humboldt?! – and went to play on Trinidad Beach as though I’d never left. The sand was draining on my hourglass, though. I knew I had a flight to catch, but I needed a soft place to land first. From Trinidad, I called a few girlfriends down in San Francisco, and they delightedly cleared their schedules that evening for me.
But first, I wandered south through my homeland, eating at the north end of town at a favorite vegetarian spot (and making sure to get some more coffee!), saying soft and quiet until-next-times to all my favorite haunts, and promising a longer return to the places and people with which I hadn’t reconnected while there for such a preciously short visit. I promised myself that, one day, I would come back home for good, and never leave.
As I drove south, I looked around at the giant forests that say "home" to me, and kept asking myself, "Why are you leaving this?" I kept saying to myself, "Turn around. Go back." I also repeatedly noted, with a jolt and a pang in my chest, no ring on my finger. I realized that I had come into California one of a small class of people to whom equality pertains. And it occurred to me that, for the first time in my life, I wanted to be less equal. I hurtled south on the Redwood Highway wanting to lose my equal status. You see, not only can I not get a divorce. My home state doesn’t recognize the marriage. Until I live somewhere that does, I will remain married to my husband. I would love to return home for the requisite time so I can finish this chapter, file for divorce, move on legally as myself alone, not just spiritually. But when I do, I will lose my equality in California; I will not be able to marry in my home county again.
So I rolled southward, relieved, but a little dumbstruck by my sudden desire to be (even temporarily) less equal. My girlfriends greeted me with wine, open arms, and endless love. And a little hope.
I promise I’ll come home again soon. Equal or no...it's still home.