Hoist Up the John B Sail

I always thought I was pretty good at remembering students' names. I meet a lot of people every week through yoga and improv, but I make special intention to remember the students who come to my classes over and over again. Sometimes -- often, I'd even say -- I'm successful.

Last weekend when I was in New York, I took Frank Mauro's class at Om. (He's awesome if you don't already know.) I've only taken his class maybe a handful of times (I know I said he was awesome, but it's not like the pickings are slim in NYC), and it's been a year since I was last in the city. He looked right at me before class began and unceremoniously said, "Lauren, right?"

Damn. Maybe he's got a photographic memory, or something like that. But honestly? I think this man's mind is clean. Makes me wonder if there are any song lyrics in there, like there are in mine.

See how the main sail sets
Call for the captain ashore
Let me go home

I loved going back. It felt like home in a lot of ways. Until I felt again why it's not. I love New York like old boyfriends who shall go unnamed. It's very real, and very passed.

I visited my good friend Samantha -- one of several whose absence I've really felt in the last year -- on Friday evening. At one point, she asked me to hand her an old journal to look something up. I had given it to her years before when she was about to take a big trip back to Australia, where she's from. On the first page, I'd written:

You can never go home again. But the truth is you can never leave home, so it's okay.
- Maya Angelou

And it hit me: home has nothing to do with geography at all. It's a feeling, a truth. And in my case, I can get there as truly from a full listen to Pet Sounds as I can from five minutes in Union Square Park. Or Zilker Park, for that matter.

For example. I mean, the possibilities are endless. All roads lead to Home. Some probably just take longer than others.