it is one of the great tragedies in my life, that i was born an american. (another, that i was born half-chinese, without the blonde hair, blue eyes, and long legs of my distantly-german-scottish-french mother.) my soul, i have always felt, has resided in britain. in the ragged cliffs and angry seas, the rolling soft green pastures with their hedgerows and sheep, the sturdy ponies and muddy wellingtons, ancient stones and viking burial grounds. the romanticized country pub with its fire warm in winter and dark beer and simple food. charles dickens and j.r.r tolkien (though his history was mostly invented, i always wished it was real), mary poppins and most of all jane austen. spencer and chaucer and milton and shakespeare. king arthur and sir gawain and beowulf and once a novel about a girl-paige with violet eyes who could wield a sword better than a king. what history could stand up to that? certainly not a history full of stuffy old men putting things in writing with plume-pens and those stupid pants. i was never very much beguiled by the vast expanses of unexplored territory: The West. i have been raised in the west, and it is lovely, but never so romantic as the unknown lands of the old country. even the native americans, whom i do admire, especially in their wisdom regarding the earth, and animals, and their quiet reverence of all things, have never held my heart. i feel more connected to my other ancestry (though it is not by blood, as far as i know), of the ancient polynesian explorers. the native hawaiians who were strong, dark, of the land and more so of the sea, who sang in a beautiful language and believed in mischievous menehunes and the power of the waves. they were warriors, they were royalty. they have eleven letters in their alphabet, only the letters that make the most melodious sounds. and the others -- the maori, with tattooed faces and violence and enduring art. those who were great navigators, ship builders, sea farers. i feel my soul borne on the same winds. i will find your stars to guide me, but never home, because home is nowhere. home is so many disparate places; the tops of mountains and the bottom of the sea floor, a ship, a forrest, a heart that will never stay still.