Sure, New York is no Arizona, but there are subtle things that are so alike that awaken my soul. For instance, the houses, that I suspect were built during the Victorian era, are basically the same. Beautifully built but with imperfections, unlike those built in Phoenix under subdivision and home owner association rule. Many of these houses have been added to, like the house I grew up in. In fact, as I write this, I am sitting in a studio added on to the back of a house.
Then there’s the people. The people here are laid back, but busy, they have plenty of stress, but know how to live, something I’ve been trying to figure out how to do for some time now.
As I said in a blog about love in October last year, the man I marry is going to have to love Prescott as much as I do. It’s where I am from. It’s my roots.
Before I moved out here a little over a month, I found a birthday card my now-dead uncle gave me for my first birthday. In it were many kind words, as well as a map of Long Island that said never to forget my roots. Arizona maybe my roots, but digging deeper, and I realize those roots aren’t like the Phoenix, reborn out of it’s ashes, but rather, my roots are right here, with the crisp air, rain, and dragon flies.