Looking at my heart

It is good to be home, yet, once again, I feel as if I am still
stagnating. I blamed it on jet-lag, my inability to get out of my
apartment my first night home to check out some new salsa venues. I
left New York feeling rejuvenated and eager to do so much, happy to
be single, to have total control over my life and time, yet, a few
days back . . . and . . . things feel out of sync. Changes occurred
in my absence, in me or in LA. It is home and there is no where else
I want to be at the moment, but I feel something brewing and I am not
sure I am ready. Maybe it is just life. Maybe it is PMSing. Maybe
it is unexpectedly running into someone who challenged, though he did
not know it at all, all the progress I thought I made internally on
this little trip. Some would say that it is my own fault, that I can
control my reactions to everything around me, it is my choice to be
hurt or disappointed or angry or just plain frustrated in the face of
life's little games. I agree to an extent. Sometimes you just feel
how you feel and you want to be allowed to feel that without
roadblocks or interference. Maybe the question is what do you do
the next day. Lay in bed until noon? Well, almost. But then I
dragged myself out to Griffith Park for a hike on razorback trail,
now smoothed and evened, perhaps from crews who went in to the
fires. It is spring and wildflowers bloom yellow and purple, some
strangling with orange witches' hair (natures has her own logic, i
guess) between the blackened stubs that dot the barren
mountainsides. It was like looking at my own heart.