There is nothing I have wanted more in this life than to find my place. I have traveled far, living in remote climes doing obscure and sometimes fun things to find it. I have found it here on this plot of land, in this town, with this family. I am never letting it go.
Rain came while weeding and I let the drops cool me as I hacked at things in my way. I unleashed the tomatoes. Set free the hot peppers. Cleared half a row of carrots and beets. Hoe gritty, arms mud-spattered, I watched the rain from inside the barn door. Why should I feel so much comfort in the smell of hay, tractor oil and dirt? I was a girl again at the bottom of my street digging for buried treasure. I was going to be an archeologist. I made special shoes out of dish sponges so I could walk in the rain.
“You can’t think your way to authenticity,” someone once told me.
Resist what doesn’t feel right or true. Wander. Get lost. Get lost some more.
I know who I am when I do that.
A place, a person, a job, a book, an art.
When you find home you know it. And then nothing can tear you away. Ever.