"One may have a blazing hearth in one`s soul and yet no one ever came to sit by it. Passers-by see only a wisp of smoke from the chimney and continue on their way." - Vincent Van Gogh

" Wonder and love and great sorrow shook Schmendrick the Magician then, and came together inside him and filled him, filled him until he felt himself brimming and flowing with something that was none of these. He did not believe it, but it came to him anyway, as it had touched him twice before and left him more barren than he had been. This time, there was too much of it for him to hold; it spilled through his fingers and toes, welled up equally in his eyes and his hair and the hollows of his shoulders. There was too much to hold — too much ever to use; and still he found himself weeping with the pain of his impossible greed. He thought, or said, or sang, I did not know that I was so empty, to be so full. " — Peter S. Beagle

In Santa Cruz there is a small yellow wedge of a house with a staircase curving up around the outside. Someday, I’m going to buy that house. I’m going to surround it with wisteria, jasmine, and honeysuckle that will climb the sides and fill my house with their sweet fragrance day and night. I’ll put a rose garden on the roof, with a hammock in the middle, so that I can listen to the ocean, the birds, the laughter of the beach people, as I enjoy the warmth of the California sun shining down on my skin in a way that I’ve found is peculiar to California’s golden beaches.

In the mornings I’ll walk along the beach, looking for sea glass that will slowly grow into a mosaic of Monet’s water lilies. In the afternoons I’ll drive down the coast, toward Monterrey, where I can immerse myself in the scent of eucalyptus. I’ve decided that there is nothing in the world like eucalyptus, even the word gets me. I will never again choose to live in a place whose environment is prohibitive to those wonderful trees. The invigorating scent, the long, silvery leaves, the funny little pods, there’s nothing like it, no acceptable substitutes.

If you ever happen to be walking to the boardwalk in forty or fifty years, when I’ll finally be able to call it my street, feel free to stop by. You’ll know that it’s me by the white lace curtains with small blue flowers drifting in and out of the open windows and by the Russian Blue lounging on the porch. I’ll make you hot cocoa and we can sit outside and listen to the ocean and the sounds of the boardwalk. In the summer there will be live music on the beach, and we can go swing dancing at the hotel up the street where they give lessons. Later on we’ll make a bonfire in the sand and watch the waves break on the shore, the white foam glowing against the pitch blackness all around us. Then you will love my California too.