I really, really love staying in my hometown on weekends. I'm getting that country love from a country boy with manners and heart. As soon as I tell townsfolk I'm from there, their eyes light up warmly and suddenly we're family. It's really, really awesome having this sense of belonging. I never really realized how much I belong to this community, until I left, and especially now, post-mass-shooting.
When I return to my city home, I cry. Not sad tears, but grateful tears. Grateful my hometown is still there and that I have the gift of being able to just be there and feel loved there. I feel so taken care of there! It's profound. I can't even fully articulate what it is. A sentimentality, a nostalgia, a happy past that I get a second chance with, to relive my happiest times. To relive my innocence. To check in with others my age and bond over things that only we understand. The endearing quality of warm-hearted small town people who care nothing for narcissism or money or fame. But it's more even than all of that. I can't describe it. I'm just grateful. I'm really proud of where I am from. I never really was when I lived there. But now I have perspective, a blend of an outsider and insider's perspective. I've seen the world, so now coming home to my childhood roots has a lot of meaning for me. I love it so much now. I'm full of appreciation. This place raised me. It was a community effort.
Being there makes me feel that all the missing and broken pieces in me are healing. Healing describes the feeling. Going home is profoundly healing medicine. Remembering where I come from shows me how far I came. I accomplished the dreams I left for. Now I have a long resume and my heart might just be ready to return back to my secret little happy place, in my beautiful nowhere town.
6:39 p.m. - 2019-10-20