My Favorite Place

For as long as I can remember, my favorite place has been on a beautiful old carousel horse going up, down, and around. Coming upon one during an outing, I have at times embarrassed a friend who thinks carousels are exclusively for children--and a parent, if needed by the wee ones. Frankly, I think that carousels, like Jonathan Swift, are not for children. To a child, it's just another form of being lifted up. That's my theory, anyway.  Whereas to me a carousel is a grand trip around a safe world: the gorgeous horse I'm on, not terrifying, the way real horses are; the music reliably old and without hate for anyone. And I can let go--not the easiest thing for me to do.

That reminds me of an experience I had during my first trip to England. A new--brand new--invited me to drive down to Rottingdean to meet his parents. They turned out to be titled, and for good reason. But that part of the story is for another time. After a long, late lunch, all gathered in one of the cozy living rooms. Conversation began and ebbed and soon everyone retired to his or her own thoughts--or none. Seated beside the fireplace, something came upon me, a kind of half-dream state. Totally unfamiliar. As I leaned back into the chair and my feeling of ease grew, it--very slowly--tiptoed into my head that this was what being relaxed felt like. My virgin experience. I was twenty-two.

So: carousels and one of the three connected Jones houses in Rottingdean make the list of favorite places cherished memories. (Although if anyone reading this wants to drive me to a carousel I haven't been on,  I can be ready in twenty minutes.) But my all-time favorite place is one I have never visited. Nor, if you're reading this, have you. I have no idea what it's like--I used to think it was either where I would get all my questions answered; or, still better, have no more questions. But now...I want to be surprised. You listening, God? That would be heaven.