True North

I have this innate awareness of the points of the compass. Often I can determine the placement of north, south, east and west even when I am in an unfamiliar location and the sun is in the middle of the sky, just because to me, each direction has a different "feel" to it. Each of the four strikes a different chord in my psyche, inviting me to respond in a certain way.

The west always looks to me like a dead end. I know it's not; I've traveled west several thousand miles and seen the wild and beautiful country beyond that horizon. But just looking at the western sky, I always think, "backdrop." A permeable backdrop, but a backdrop. The west is the ends of the earth.

The east, by contrast, looks like an invitation. It speaks to me of getting up and going, heading toward the sun, heading toward the edge of the continent to look out over the sea. And beyond the sea, there is still more to be seen. The east, in my subconscious, represents beginnings, possibilities.

The south, I confess, tends to look flat to me. I don't know why. To my eyes, it always shines with a sort of dull light, resembling an illuminated floor, something you would find at the bottom of the rabbit hole. The south means a place to put your shoes, a springboard from which to fly upward.

Which brings us to the north.

The north gives me the strongest feeling of all. I can always recognize a northern sky because it makes me want to run toward it. This has nothing to do with the scenery, by the way. There might be a forest on the southern horizon and a steel mill on the northern horizon, but I will still feel an inexplicable pull to the north, whereas the south seems more like a wall to lean my back against.

The north truly calls me, and I have no idea why. All I know is, I understand the term "true north." If I were the needle of a compass, it wouldn't matter how many times you spun me around: in the end, I would always swing toward the north pole.