I’ve been quiet for a while. Turns out, a case of homesickness isn’t just for kids at camp. I moved in early July and have been yearning for cotton fields, and Friday Night Lights since I left. I also went from living completely alone in the coziness of a country town to getting a new dog, Tuck Finn, and moving three bedrooms smaller with my boyfriend. It’s a tight squeeze with my main squeeze.
I’ve cried probably every day.
I’ve prayed probably every hour.
And in my living room there’s a quote from Abraham Lincoln sewn into a patchwork frame that says “I have been driven many times upon my knees by the overwhelming conviction that I had nowhere else to go.” Whatever you believe in, believe in it fully is what I’ve learned these past few weeks. I’ve lost myself in work. My Mom asked me if “maybe, you should see someone,” and my friends have heard tears through the phone instead of giggles for about a week.
But today, I made a movement to change all that. There is power in positive thinking. I have become a walking – talking – bubblegum-chewing – self-help book. I’ve decided I will no longer be sad. I will embrace my new community and the new oldness of it. I’m in my actual hometown again, but I feel homesick for the place I called home for the last three years.
Homesickness is a strange creature. I imagine it how I imagine morning sickness. It’s been named all wrong, it hits suddenly with the force of a locomotive, and it asks for no forgiveness. One second I can be laughing at a joke and the next second I’m in tears, wilted on the floor of my apartment. It’s not that I’m depressed, it’s that I feel completely out of place in my setting. I’m a character meant for the South when I’ve been moved to the rain forest. I’m also not a city girl. I escape in big porches. I like to be surrounded by fields. I want land. Expanse. Space to think and leave crumbs. Roaming space. I only feel comfortable mind-roaming when I’m in a distance. Here, I can hear the creak of the stairs, the stomp of their work shoes on the wood outside the apartment door. I don’t own this place. I am not this place.
Isn’t that strange that your “home”town can change?
And when people ask, do you tell them where you “grew up” or do you tell them where you grew up? I became an adult in LBG. I was a woman of strength. Big girl panties ON THE REGULAR. Moving back to my hometown, I’ve had to find that woman again, and I’m on a new journey to track her down. It’s a bit of a scavenger hunt, but I’m picking berries along the way.
Today was beautiful. Both weather and company. This is about growing while thriving. Sometimes it’s hard to do both at the same time. Now I believe flowers really do have an expedition.