I live in Connecticut in a small and beautiful town. It is where I abide but I would not call it home. That is left to another shore. There was a time not so long ago, that I could jump on a plane and get to Oregon in a few hours.

There was a time when I looked forward to the ease of arriving in London from New York City in sometimes less time that it took to get to Oregon. My two homes… both soul homes. And for different reasons, I can’t get to either one right now.

I, like many of us, am cut off from the ability to bounce around. I have always cherished both of my ‘homes’ but never as much as now. And I don’t know if I will feel confident to board a plane for some time.

During the pandemic epic, I find my thoughts constantly drifting to eastern Oregon and the wide open skies. The blue blanket of sky that meets and touches the sweeping hay and wheat fields has always been my ‘go to’ vision of zen. Framed like an Ansel Adams photograph, the blue and wheat colors seem untarnished by the hard edge of the world. I close my eyes to capture that memory in my mind as if it is a healing elixir right now. Before the pandemic, I needed that ‘fix’ often…I needed to touch down and see Mt Hood on a clear day. I needed to bathe myself in the light and the dry air of the high desert. It was cleansing to my spirit after a lifetime of walking on city pavements. And miles and miles of vistas which lures the mind into a spectrum of space…I have been yearning for the wide open spaces with fewer people around me. I want the ability to spread my arms and breathe.

It may be a long time until I am on a flight. And if you have read my blogs, you will understand just what flying means to me. As I feel historically bound to my Father whenever I board a plane I suddenly feel that loss of reunion. But being deprived of the vista of Oregon manifests itself now as an ache inside me. It may be a long time until I am breathing the desert air. And I feel pulled away from what revives me. My family are still there. They enjoy a simpler life on the ranch near the banks of the Columbia River. The sound and smell of sprinklers are refreshing the land around them. The hummingbirds are darting in and out around the cherry trees. My Mom has her morning coffee on the front porch until the eastern Oregon sun bears down too strong. They are all safe and far from the riots in Portland and the alarm of armed guards. And they are far from the worries of the troubled cities across the world who aren’t sleeping well these days.

I would like to think that London still waits for me to return. I am confident that she will survive as she has done through world wars, terrorist attacks and past political turmoil. Through Brexit and the pandemic, she continues to exist on history, literature, theater and a unique eccentricity that some of us are called to. That calling sustains many of us who have traveled and lived within her walls. And for those of us who have worked and earned the right to be accepted in England, it leaves an indelible connection to our hearts with a recognition of perhaps the better parts of ourselves. England is still a lion. And for those who are drawn to her indelible strength we outsiders feel as if we have been given a pass to share her stories. And when I touch down there, I feel that I am on the threshold of eternity. Perhaps as Ronald Frederick Delderfield suggested, God actually IS an Englishman.

Two homes. So far apart but yet so close in spiritual strength. I am just a visitor here on the east coast of America. I recognized long ago that I am just passing through. I hope that there will be a time soon when I get to go home. And maybe I can stay a while longer. To take in the eagles that fly overhead in the vistas of eastern Oregon while feeling the hot sun on my face…but also to gaze on the soft green grass in Hyde Park while listening to the sounds of a city in a country that is never defeated.