Before I reached the (pathetically late) nest-leaving age of 21, I found it nigh-impossible to move from my hometown of Bozeman, MT. My family moved to Maryland briefly when I was 8, but ended right back in Bozeman less than a year later; back into the same house, no less. At 18, I applied to and was accepted by a university in a town 3.5 hours away. I went. I came back every weekend. I came down with Mononucleosis and was back in my hometown two months after leaving.
I got onto the airplane to come back to Los Angeles at 7:00pm on Monday night. I settled into my window seat (a must for me, as I am obsessed with watching the world go miniature as the plane ascends) and nearly pressed my nose against the glass (or whatever it actually is). As we took off and rose above the valley of my birth I saw, really for the first time, my little town from the air. I stared, wondering just how it could look so small. How this little town could look like so little, like it could mean nothing, when so much of my heart lives there. And it does. This is not to say that I’m going back. I may never go back. But that’s where my heart is. It’s where I suddenly feel at peace with myself and the world and my surroundings and my struggles. It’s where the truest parts of me wake up and look around and wonder where the hell they’ve been hiding for so long.
6 months ago