Home. Again...

Home again...it happens.  They call my generation the "revolving door" generation.  My parents would agree.  My mother is thrilled to have me back on her radar.  My sister is glad to have my mouthy defense and my dad has allowed me to repay my debt by painting the house.  

I have roots here in my hometown.  Certain roads have stirred up memories I had wanted to forget.  I roll my windows down to let the smell of the lake stream through my car and refresh my senses.  Familiar faces at the grocery store and at the gas station remind me that this is indeed the place I grew up.  The old friendships feel new.  And the difficult ones have already come to an end.  This growing up thing, this revolving door wind tunnel has a dizzying effect.  

Something magical happened while I was away.  I unexpectedly found my two feet.  In the words of my mentor, I came home to myself.  This is a place I hadn't been able to find.  Somewhere in the South I found the key to my resting place, the key to myself.  This sounds almost New Age, spiritual beyond my comfort level.  However, my life became my own. 

I sat with a new friend last night.  She was asked a question regarding her new life location.  The question, "Do you have the strength to do this?" Her response will be my summer mantra, "It's not about strength, it's about freedom.  I have freedom and that makes all the difference." She speaks as a woman who has come home to herself.  

To answer the question, I'm home again.  The experiment didn't fail.  It wasn't an experiment. I love Southern Living and find my Northern roots make for good branches to sit in.  

Most of all, I'm so glad to find that home is where I am.  I guess those cheesy tourist shop cross-stitch pillows might be true.

You're welcome mom.