The comfort of the familiar by Ruth Neuwald Falcon

When I left Seattle almost three years ago, after living there for thirty years, I thought that nothing short of something major—either joyful or sorrowful—in the life of one of my friends would bring me back. I couldn’t imagine wanting to go back for a visit. I was sure I was done there.

Seattle is, in many ways, a lovely city. It didn’t quite make sense to me that it had never felt like my city. True, there is the Seattle Freeze, a phenomenon so widely recognized that it rates a Wikipedia entry. But even in this atmosphere of polite but distant friendliness, I made real friends.

It looked right in many ways—”right,” in my worldview being a resemblance to the northeast—certainly more than Southern California where I had spent the previous nine years. I loved the browns and golds of that arid landscape, and the friends I made there as well, but it wasn’t really surprising that, after the first couple of honeymoon years, it was clearly not my place and I moved on.

Washington, on the other hand, is the Evergreen State. The Puget Sound sparkles. Lake Washington and Lake Union anchor the city. There are mountains to the east, and mountains to the west. On clear days (and there are many more of them than Seattle’s reputation would give one cause to believe), Mount Rainier hangs in the distance like a powerful spirit reminding us of its implacability (that was the word that always came to mind when I saw it) should it be roused. Its beauty did not take away from its power.

And then there are the evergreens themselves. While there are four seasons in Seattle, there is never a time when all the trees are bare. Spring comes in February, with the first crocuses and daffodils. Snow may follow, but the bulbs, despite my fears for them each year, were never daunted. They handled it but I was never ready for it. It felt like winter was being truncated.

A few weeks ago, driving out of a shopping center in upstate New York, I saw a small grove of evergreens and I thought, I don’t miss them.

It’s not a matter of right and wrong. It’s just a matter of something inside knowing where we belong. I belong in New York State. It smells right. The houses, with their enclosed porches and mudrooms, look right. The greens displayed on trees and bushes and grasses soothe my eyes. The Hudson River flows its tidal way outside my windows. Even on the worst days of summer (and there are plenty of those this year), I am grateful to be here.

I recently returned from a week in Seattle. Nothing major had happened to bring me there. The prior week had been spent on Maui where I’d gone for an old friend’s wedding and it seemed like an opportune time to visit my Seattle friends.

To my surprise, it felt good to be there. Yes, I am deeply connected to my home state but I haven’t yet lived in my new “hometown” long enough for it to have become familiar. The city, especially the Upper West Side, is familiar. When I walk down Broadway or West End Avenue, it’s as if all my molecules take a deep breath of relief. They know exactly where they are and know that they belong here.

It’s not that I don’t know how to get around in my new community and I’ve started making friends here. I know where to shop and how to get places. But it’s not familiar. It’s not that I could describe each house or name each store that I passed as I drove around my old Seattle neighborhood. It’s more subtle than that.

The deep familiarity I felt driving down streets I’d known for over three decades comforted me in a way I hadn’t anticipated. As good for my soul as it was to see old friends, it gave my spirit a chance to rest to be on those familiar streets.

I don’t know how long it will take to achieve that kind of familiarity here. I trust it will come. In the meantime, it feels good to newly appreciate the city that was my home for so long.