I
am on vacation, back in beloved New England. Mountains, green everywhere—both
deciduous and coniferous. And the smell of balsam is everywhere. My sweet
husband is here for the first time, and I love seeing the wonder I his eyes as
he sees this landscape for the first time. I won’t ever grow complacent about
it or his wonder. The glassy lakes, the mountains, old mountains, covered to
the top in trees so that as high as one looks there is green: A cradle of trees to embrace me as I
head out each morning.
Yesterday
we went down to the ocean, thank the gods. The sea, la mer, is a holy place. The beach is its altar, and I worship
without reservation and with total abandon. Again, I am breathing in the
perfumes of my childhood, and they are sweeter and more abundant than ever I
remember. And K is here with me, perhaps not to worship, but to love---that in
itself is a religion. Our religion. Coming back here—the last time I was here
was the week after my father died—and many times and years before, always
brought a sense of home; sights, scents, sounds. This year, here with K, now two
years after my father has passed, nostalgia has threatened to overtake me with
Unexpected Teary Moments, and even physical longings to speak to my father.
Memories, of childhood, of my time with him that semester, the things he did
for us as kids…silver queen corn from the farmer’s stand…impromptu trips for
fresh soft ice cream after dinner…the smell of fresh warm fields mixed with the
scent of freshly washed kid-hair. I have spoken of my father often during this
trip. More than I have in a while. K’s been very patient, often chiming in with
a memory or two of his own.
With
each visit home, it is inevitable that I voice my desire to live here. And
yet…I am simply not sure if I can live every day with so much nostalgia and so
many memories conjured around each corner. It’s so beautiful here—the Plains of
the Midwest are sad, brown, fallow
fields by comparison, even in their fullest growth. Perhaps I am sad, brown and
fallow on the Plains. This is more likely, since many people around me,
including K, extol the virtues of said Plains. But it’s not that soil in which my parents are buried. Not
there where I grew up in every way. Not there where I feel watered and
nurtured.
I
am there because my job is there. A job. It sounds so cheap. In my heart, it’s
a crappy reason to be in a place; my head knows full well the fuel a job
brings. As I get older—and I have
aged in body, mind, and spirit since my parents died—I feel a job is a lame
excuse to stay where I do not flourish. This seems not a wise notion but a
childish one. However, I do know the wisdom of children, and the simple, pure
knowledge they possess. I want to follow my heart, but I don’t think it’s
healed completely. Pretty close
though. I’m not entirely sure how much healing will happen---if there is any
left to do. I think my heart will always be injured, and it matters how I work
around it, succeed because of it, and care for it. <3
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