Land of the Long White Cloud

The clouds move across the prairie, and I dream of Aotearoa, wondering if it’s possible for a place to break your heart. I drive north from Greeley late in the afternoon, and watch the cumulus clouds filter the western light. The view of the Rockies is dazzling. Fall has arrived and the aspens begin to blaze with color. The weather softens, and the blood warms to the burgundy and gold embers of autumn. But the leaves will soon fall, leaving some desires exposed.

It’s been four years since we left our place on what the Maori called the land of the long white cloud, and despite the bounty of the Rockies, and the blessings of our job and home, I show fleeting gratitude for the Centennial state. The rugged Rockies welcome our used camping gear, and forgive us our affinity for mountains further south. But I’m just not in love. I long for salt water lagoons, the slap of a dolphin against a sea kayak, swing bridges, moist air, the Kiwi cadence, the southern sky, the mountain views that induce spontaneous tears.

Geography and money called us back to this country. We missed family and had developed a long list of “what-ifs”. Was it only yesterday that we boarded a plane to Los Angeles, peered down at the verdant landscape below and solemnly promised we’d be back? Four years and several overseas trips later, we’ve yet to return to the place we married, the space where we owned little but knew what Joseph Campbell meant when he said: I think what we’re really seeking is the experience of being alive.

So if you must ask about That Place, please whisper its name. Hide the maps, the tourist brochures, and lay the Lord of the Rings trilogy to rest. At least, that is, until we get one more chance to go home.