Hole in the Heart

Giving in to Steve's obsessive need to make his Jeep look bigger, badder and meaner than all other Jeeps in the land, we piled in the car yesterday for a 4.5 hour trip over the mountains and through the woods to Staunton, Va., to pick up a set of pre-purchased doors. He already had a set of doors, you see, but they were half steel/half plastic and thus were very noisy on the road.

In blatant snubbery of Mapquest (whose directions are stupid and inefficient) we planned our route to said destination via my hometown even though it meant whipping my little car around some viciously twisty-turvy mountains. But it also meant gazing out the window at some of the prettiest scenery with which God graced the planet. About halfway through the first stage of the trip, though, a nagging, knotting presented itself in the pit of my stomach ... and it wasn't motion sickness. Nope, it was worse. It was home sickness, and it was there to do battle.

I've always been rather attached to my hometown, though I admit I was one of those people who swore as a teenager that I was leaving and never going back. My first job out of college was back home, and I stayed there a full three years before leaving in the typical way ... following someone else. We moved to a town about 2.5 hours away, and we've been here a little over a year. I like it well enough ... but it's not home.

Now, usually when I start on this topic, I'm told that it's unreasonable to think that one will live in his/her hometown for life. I know that. Most people in the United States grow up in small towns where the chance for decent-paying jobs are very slim. I know this because I grew up in a town like that. If there had been a chance to do so, we'd still be there.

On second thought ... there haven't really been that many opportunities for me, specifically, to make any more money here than I did there. Each move I've made has been lateral, whilst the bills, they keep-a-coming.

I just stinking miss it. I miss the quietness. I miss knowing everyone. I miss hanging out with my friends, taking strolls through the neighborhood, and being close to the people I love. I miss having a sense of place ... a sense of purpose. It's stupid, I know, but back there I knew who I was. Here ... I'm not so sure. It seems my life here is devoted to meeting the expectations of other people. I'm tired of success being judged by external criteria. I'm tired of everyone believing success is found only by venturing out into the world and climbing to the top of this make-believe ladder that places value only on the weight of things you accumulate. Is it wrong to simply want a quiet existence? My heart says no ... the world screams yes.

I'm sick of being bound by these stupid expectations. I'm sick of feeling like my contributions aren't enough ... that the things I want are of little importance. That my sacrifices mean nothing ... earn me nothing. If I knew Capital One, et. al wouldn't trace my scent, I'd be outta here. Gone to a little cabin by a stream somewhere, happily planting a garden, taking walks and reading books. I'd make a great hobbit. Unfortunately, I don't think I'll ever get the chance. The hole I've dug for myself is too deep for that.

Guess I'll have to be content with the big, hairy feet.