The first time I moved to Oregon, back in the early nineties, I would sometimes awake and be uncertain as to the time of year. I'd look out my window at the gray monotones of cloud-filled sky, see the leafless trees and think: "It's spring. No, it's fall. Wait a minute..." Only later, when I was fully awake did the remembrance of the season return to mind, and along with it the contiguous sequence of days from far-off Then to the eternal Now.
What made things more disorienting were the constant back-and-forths across the country, visiting family, then moving back to New Hampshire, then returning once more to Oregon. The reverberation of this is felt in my dream life, where more often than not I am traveling somewhere. Why just last night, I was back in Sanbornton, New Hampshire. The Town Hall had been transformed into a strangely Eastern Community Center(and by Eastern, I mean East like India). There were colorful pillows in a side room arranged around a television set. The keeper of the voting roll mis-pronounced my name. Apparently we were voting for something. I said to my wife, "We've given up a lot to be in Oregon."
How we happened to be voting in a New Hampshire election while simultaneously living in Oregon I do not know-- the internal logic of dreams, I guess. I do know that shortly after I spoke to my wife, I saw my high school English teacher. He looked at me and frowned, as if he could tell at a glance I was not where I was supposed to be, or perhaps he understood that I had not remained true to the potential of my supposed gift.
Only much later did I realize that the twinning of days exists truly. Though in Oregon, there is an echo of this even in the seasons. The late winter and spring sunsets so closely resemble fall-- sunrise, too, on the weekends when one arises just a bit later.
Born and raised in a harsher clime, the mild nature of the weather and seasons often displaces me chronologically. For instance, I look out the window today and see a cloudy, windy day with green grass and blooming flowers; this would be early April in New Hampshire. The warm weather yesterday was the weather of May. The calender tells me it is the last day of February, but my heart tells me this cannot be true. This false spring leaves me homesick, makes me want to return to my birthplace, but I know that the calender does not agree with this feeling. School vacation does not agree. My work schedule does not agree. Perhaps this is why I go back again and again every night and why I awake confused and out-of-step with the rest of the world.
