return

So, here I am, back to my roots.  It’s been strange, being back.  I guess after being away for exactly two-and-a-half years, it should be wonderful to be back.  It should be great to be home.  And it is in many ways.  I found a house that is pretty close to just right.  It’s very nice in a very nice neighborhood and lots of space for a household of one.   Nothing had to be done to move in, although it can use new carpet, and the linoleum kitchen and baths need updating, and the decent but not amazing cabinets can’t hold a candle to the beautiful hickory ones I had before.  Luckily everything is in good enough shape that I didn’t have to do anything but load my belongings into the space. 

Still I wonder if I jumped into ownership too quickly.  It feels good in my gut, so it must be okay.  Usually I can tell if it’s “right” or not, and there was nothing about this that didn’t feel right.  In fact, the only thing that didn’t feel right about the whole move was leaving Chicago.  I chalked it up to sentimental attachment to the place that so quickly felt like home; to the excitement of the city, to the view I never tired of and the ease of moving around town.  To the people and places I came to know, and the things I never got around to.  But I would be back where everything was familiar, where I have family, and friends, and real life.

So, here I am.  I look out the window and see my big backyard.  I listen at night to silence.  I walk around the neighborhood and look at house after house that pretty much look the same.  Sure there are mountains in the background, and friendly faces, and sometimes I hear a mourning dove calling, and I so rarely hear sirens that I actually notice them when I do.  I can even hear the passing freight train in the distance if I listen.  It’s all very nice; it’s all what I’ve known almost all my life.  So why don’t I feel better about being here?

I miss walking around town and discovering new sights every day.  I miss being able to do almost anything I want without getting in a car.  I miss deep dish pizza and Italian beef sandwiches and chopped salad and the best buffalo chicken pizza and bruschetta in the world, at least in my experience.  I miss the train ride to and from work.  I even miss the office although almost everyone I knew is no longer there.

I recently acquired a roommate – a kitten that had been dropped off at a Vet office down the road.  I don’t know what his life was before coming to live with me, but I let him outside once and he seemed in awe of the grass and the leaves blowing around and all the SPACE and bushes to hide in.  After coming back inside, he would sit at the door or window and peer longingly at the big outdoors.  I feel like that – like I was allowed to discover this whole, big, shiny world out there, and now I’m back inside my house peering longingly at my memories of the city.

Yes, I should feel better about being back, and I feel some level of guilt that I don’t.  I sometimes wonder if I should have stayed in Chicago, if I would be happier, or feel more “at home”.  Then, I think about all the things I missed when I was there; my family, the mountains, the simplicity of living, having pets and a yard and the privacy of my own house.  I know that as Spring springs and I am able to dig in the dirt and bask in the Southern sun and mow my lawn and do all the things that have long been passions of mine, I’ll know that I’m in the right place.  I’ll know that my gut was telling me that this is where I belong.  And it was right.