Give me roots. Give me home.
Once upon a time, I envisioned a workshop. It was my workshop. A place where I could attain the fullest expression of myself. It contained very little.
A white futon.
My sleeping cat.
Built-in shelves loaded with my favourite books.
A small desk.
A pad of paper.
A favourite pen.
The view from my one-time bedroom window…
Blue skies over a sunny field of canola.
I drove home a number of weekends ago. Not to my home exactly, but close enough. It was lovely in the strangest of ways. The sky was clear. The sun was shining. I took picture after picture, my face eagerly pressed up against the passenger-side window, excitedly soaking it all in. Remembering, cherishing, what I once took for granted.
I miss the big, blue skies of the Alberta countryside. The awe they inspire. The possibility they convey. And I miss the resulting contrast of the rolling waves of canola, yellow and green, green and yellow, growing as far and as wide as the eye can see.
This land is a patchwork quilt. Her people, though they might wander, remain tightly sewn together.
I miss my family. I’ve not seen them in awhile and this saddens me. I miss the easy gatherings. When it was possible to stumble home.
I miss the close-knit community I grew up in. The one that knew for certain when and where I was, at all times. Even when that meant trouble for me.
I miss the individual people of that community. The ones I see once or twice a year now. Despite my best effort, or perhaps desire, to see them more. Gratefully, the conversations pick up right where they left off. And I love these people all the more for it.
I miss my space. That I could still see my neighbours, if I tried hard enough, though they lived miles away. And if I took all day to get dressed, because some days it suits me just fine to do so, there was no one around to notice. To judge.
But even if there were, such things as this would not have mattered. This perspective, we all seemed to share. I miss that the most.
I miss the pace of life. That there was always time to read. To write. To listen to music. To sit next to my bedroom window, in deep appreciation of the view and the expansiveness of my surroundings. Somehow, though I didn’t know it at the time, I experienced my own limitless possibility in that view. What a blessing…
I miss the quiet. The accidental meditations. That each moment was not whisked away in favour of what came next.
I miss my late-night drive home on a straight and steady road. No traffic to distract me from the star studded show of heavenly celebrity. The northern lights that danced outside my window. My own personal peep show. Right there…
…just off to the left.
When I left home, the day after my last official day of Grade 12, I never imagined that I would ever want to move back. Or to any place remotely like it. But I do. I really do. Like a tonne of asphalt, on this particular trip home, it all of a sudden just hit me…
I am done with the city. She used me up, she did. And though I am grateful for her opportunities, her smorgasbord of choice, I now find myself overwhelmed.
By the number of people, mostly. The number of cars, buildings, the goings-on…
For now, I choose simplicity.
And the possibility I first glimpsed in the dreams that once filled my days…