I just got back from a four-day weekend of playing and hiking in the red desert of Utah.
Home. I suppose that’s what this is. I suppose that’s where I am. In a lovely little house, in a lovely little neighborhood, in a lovely little town (with very lovely neighbors I might add), in the middle of a parched valley shrouded by towering mountains. Three-thousand miles from what used to be home.
And yet, when I go home, to my old home that is, I say things like, “Remind me to pick up some grits to take with me when I go back home to Utah.” (Back home to Utah?) Or I find myself peering out the tiny window of the airplane as we make our descent in over the Lake, and I feel a sense of …
… “belonging” isn’t the right word. Nor is it “excitement.” It’s not “relief”–but it is. Kind of. A sort of “peaceful relief” knowing this is where I’m supposed to be. Not there. That this is home. For now.
But still. While I know the desert has her own majestic beauty, and while I know the mountains are muse to many, and while I relish the view from her peaks and marvel at her colors below, it is still the sea, and only the sea, that speaks to me. Way down in my bones. It is the ocean that quenches my thirst and brings me back to life. Oh, what I wouldn’t give right now to sink my toes into her cool wet sand as the waves dance around me.