Summer 2024: Who Says You Can't Go Home Again?
Who Says You Can’t Go Home Again?
During a casual conversation, writer Ella Winter posed to colleague Thomas Wolfe, “Don’t you know you can’t go home again?” Thomas then sought permission to rephrase the quote as a book title You Can’t Go Home Again (per Wikipedia). In the context that everything outwardly has changed Ella’s quote is true. However, with my most recent trip of returning I did go home again—for the first time.
Driving north beyond the neighborhood grids I steered along the familiar byway, two miles of narrow two-lane winding amid wild grass hillsides and gravel turnoffs. Suddenly, a tree canopy enveloped me with its summer green, and I instantly felt a tug of belonging pulling my heart forward. It was as if the road remembered me, welcomed me, guided me, and rejoiced in its reunion with me.
Freshly, I felt at home in my hometown and my body flooded with giddy delight. Never had I experienced being at ease in my childhood surroundings. Growing up, the angst of survival mode underscored daily life with unceasing on-edge tension. As an adult I retained a surface strain amongst my old stomping grounds. What spell cast this new mirth?
Perhaps it was a dash of distance. My previous visit occurred a decade ago. Maybe it was a touch of timing. My book was not even a notion when I was last here. Possibly it was a hint of hospitality. My friend offered her guestroom for my stay. Mixing their magic, these elements melded with my full-circle healing and imparted a felt sense of place.
While home has many meanings, I like a quote on the Habitat for Humanity website by Linda, “Home is a safe haven and a comfort zone.” The safe haven and comfort zone I crafted internally for myself finally met the land of my birth.
And as I lounged on my friend’s deck, which happens to overlook my adolescent acreage, I heard familiar bird warbles, frog trills, and cricket chirrs echo in my ears. I recognized land and skyscapes reflected behind my eyes. I felt the lilt of breezes caress my skin. And with an inhale of the sweet prairie blossoms I sighed, “I am home.”
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