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Linda Ronstadt – Talk To Me Of Mendocino lyrics

Written by Kate Mcgarrigle
© 1975 Garden Court Music (Ascap)

I bid farewell to the state of old New York
My home away from home
In the state of New York I came of age
When first I started roaming
And the trees grow high in New York State
And they shine like gold in the autumn
Never had the blues from whence I came
But in New York State I got 'em

Talk to me of Mendocino
Closing my eyes I hear the sea
Must I wait
Must I follow
Won't you say come with me

And it's on to South Bend, Indiana
Flat out on the western plain
Rise up over the Rockies
And down on into California
Out to where but the rocks again
And let the sun set on the ocean
I will watch it from the shore
Let the sun rise over the redwoods
I'll rise with it till I rise no more

Talk to me of Mendocino
Closing my eyes I hear the sea
Must I wait
Must I follow
Won't you say come with me



Lyrics taken from http://www.lyricsmode.com/lyrics/l/linda_ronstadt/talk_to_me_of_mendocino.html

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    Michael Chernick
    Like the Buddha, Kate grew up a spiritual being with everything material and not knowing how spiritual she is; and then came the Cry of the Soul; it makes us look under rocks, beyond clouds and puts our legs in motion. It drives us far and wide till we believe that all the geography will never reveal the secret. Then we can only cry, until we give up the outer search. Our surrender is the victory of the inner life, but we must still use outer symbols as artists to bring along our audience. The lapping waves of the Mendocino coast are gentle and powerful, luring and unending, like our journey. Then we must come to grips with the temptation to merge with the infinite ocean, find and obey the inner ocean of greater contentment without waves; the deepest stillest ocean, the resolve to love those who suffer with us beyond time. We must live in both worlds, and we can, and we must encourage others to have the same forbearance. New York, the beginning is always there, and all the middle and the end merges with the memories, and the end becomes an unknown memory for which we long when born anew.
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