The Monday after I returned from Honduras I jumped in my Honda Civic Hydrid and drove down to California to visit family and friends before I’m grounded for 4 months. The drive through the Siskiyou Mountains, a spiritual experience, punched deep into the forest, a vast kaleidoscope in multi-hued shades of green. Miles and miles of towering evergreen trees on each side as I climbed up a twisting four-lane Interstate-5 that reached its highest point on I-5 between the Mexican and Canadian borders: a 4,340-foot-high pass in Oregon, its steep, curving downgrades swooping steadily downward until we crossed into California and then continuing the curvaceous mountainous plunge reaching Lake Shasta at the foot of the dormant snow-covered volcano; Mt. Shasta. The enormous Sacramento Valley stretched out toward the delta, and with a turn to the right onward toward San Francisco and the Bay Area along the mighty Sacramento River. Straight south, however, sprawled the even more enormous San Joaquin Valley. I had not seen many of my people for almost 3 years. Some longer than that. It’s been said that one can’t ever go home again. I believe it’s mostly true. I saw very few of my family and friends; they were busy living their own lives. I did enjoy the long drive and the many changes. On my return trip, in a nostalgic, wistful frame of mind, I recognized that the past was irrecoverable, however a future filled with many wonderful things beckoned ahead. I arrived in Seattle to learn that my surgery had been postponed once again until October 5th. C’est la vie.
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