Going to California

And Why We Need Places of Possibility

Today, I am headed to California, to a land of possibility—the frontier of our forebears. Every time I do this, it is an adventure. 

Photo by Julian Myles on Unsplash

Once while traveling, I left the airport on a long layover and drove to the closest beach in Los Angeles, one that my local friend said was where all the tourists go. There are much better beaches, he told me, just a few miles down the coastline, cooler ones. But I didn’t care. All I wanted was the beach, and I didn’t need it to be cool. 

Where I come from, there are no beaches you can walk at sunset, no freshly caught seafood that doesn’t spend the night before in someone’s trunk. Where I come from, there are endless fields of wheat and corn and soybeans, rolling hills if I am lucky, and maybe a lake or two. But there are no mountains to drive by, no sea to smell in the distance. There, everything is predictable. You can see a hundred miles in any direction. Any surprise headed your way is always a long time coming. 

That is the place we call Here. It is where most of us will spend our lives, a place we will always dwell but never completely know. But there is another place, one that exists in the distance, past our ability to anticipate. This is where our ancestors dreamed of, in the direction of milk and honey. It is the call of California, the promise of El Dorado. Something more beckons us, and we must go.

Every time I go to California, I understand why this territory was so attractive to our great-great grandparents, those early settlers of the West. I can see the need to escape, to find another way of being from the one we’ve been accustomed to while cramped in those tiny cities, all alone in our suburban banalities. For all the criticisms I’ve heard of this place—the high taxes and soaring costs of living, the politics and rampant homelessness—every time I visit it, each bite I take of a strawberry and every new wine I meet, I understand. I appreciate. What is not to love about a Shangri-La? There is an allure of There that brings us out of Here, and this longing is one worth paying attention to.

We are all, in one way or another, where we come from. Our birth certificates are indications to the directions of our lives, and it takes a lot of intention to alter such a course. But it is possible. And as much as I try to learn to be present wherever I am, I still see the necessity in leaving a place for a while. Venturing out past your horizon and seeing what lurks at the edge of what you know is an important pilgrimage for any human. Getting acquainted with new places and possibilities broadens a person’s perspective, helps each of us see what would otherwise remain invisible. The world changes when we do this, making itself a little less flat in the process.

Out on the edge of the world, there is excitement. Sure, there might be giants in this new land, but there may also be fairies and angels and the strangest fruits you’ve never tasted. There is no way to find these but to go, to relocate and remember what is still possible. Uprooting yourself even for a few days can remind you that you, too, are a part of the change you are trying to take in. You, too, are still in flux. Change is coming for all of us, and the gift of going is not just what we find but what we bring back with us.

Whenever I go to California, even if only passing through, I try to imbibe something of the land’s promise. Accompanying each trip is often a threshold. It feels as if life is nudging me to the next precipice that I am afraid to approach. It feels like the machine at an arcade where you keep dropping quarters into it until all the coins eventually get pushed out. You don’t know when the change will fall, but you know it eventually will.

So I come here when I am able and when I am ready to learn something new about myself. When I arrive here, I do not see the smog or traffic. I do not notice high gas prices and beautiful people. I see, instead, the optimism that created the movie business, the pioneering spirit of possibility, the ideal of change. This does not feel cliche to me. It feels necessary. “Always have something to look forward to,” someone once shared with me as a piece of advice he’d heard before his wedding. It’s great advice for a marriage and even better advice for a life. We can’t forget the importance of novelty; it’s coming for all of us sooner than we think, and we had better be ready for it.

That was what got me out of the airport that day, the feeling that my life was passing me before my eyes and I wanted to be living it. Earlier in the week, I had been visiting my girlfriend at the time and had intentionally chosen to take the “long way” home from Canada so that I could spend an afternoon in LA. I could have easily stayed in the airport for a few hours, but I wanted more. I wanted the beach.

Removing my shoes and entering the surf of a February tide was something like flying, a feat so incredible it felt nearly miraculous. Hours before, I had been surrounded by several feet of snow in northern Alberta. Now I was here, in an unexpected and undeserved summer. There was no wintry toil that preceded such abundance. It was just here, as it always is in California, as something not to understand but simply accept.

I have never seen the northern lights, but watching the sun dip below the horizon that afternoon felt like an aurora borealis of its own, an otherworldly phenomenon. The locals, of course, continued to come and go as if something like a sunset were entirely common. But I knew better. I knew the wonder I was beholding and wouldn’t let it go without a fight. As the red and orange hues enveloped everything around me at that particular Golden Hour, I vowed to never become a native anywhere, to always play the tourist, even and especially in my hometown. It was a promise I would naturally have to break, but it felt important to make, nonetheless.

After forty-five minutes of moving up and down the beach, wondering if I ought to be somewhere else while still trying to enjoy where I was, I glanced at my watch and realized it was time to go home. I put my shoes on, called a car to come pick me up, and returned to the airport. I went through security, arrived at my gate with plenty of time to spare, and awaited the next adventure.

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P.S. Don’t forget to ask me anything.

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