Sometimes in life, we have to take risks. We intuitively know that they will most likely pay off, but the leap is always scary. Especially when we can't see what we're leaping into. But we take the gamble and do it anyway. This is basically what I did a little over a year ago when I decided to move back "home" to Arkansas, from a state I won't mention, practically on a whim. I had done very little planning and even less of the "traditional" research that typically comes along with such a move. I hadn't really even checked out the city and knew very little about what type of living it afforded, but I was pretty sure it would somehow work out. So when we eventually landed in Rogers, then Fayetteville, imagine my surprise when I discovered that I couldn't have chosen a better place to live if I'd tried. This place is, well, me. There is endless food, fun and natural pursuits to be found--something for everyone from the foodie to the art fanatic, and from the sports junkie to the river rat. In short, if you can't find something you like about living here, then you probably don't like very much.
But that's only scratching the surface, and it isn't what I want to talk about. What I really want to talk about is how I discovered that this was where I belonged. After years of living in a place where I never quite found a comfort zone, I was ready for a change. I had reached the breaking point, and the "anywhere but here" attitude seemed to define my daily existence. I missed my family, I missed the seasons, I missed the trees, and I missed feeling like I belonged. In short, I needed something different, and something drastic. And I needed it yesterday. Sure, I intuitively knew that my new destination would be miles better than what I had. But what I ended up getting has far exceeded my wildest expectations. It's been everything I could have asked for and more. In fact, this place has come to be like my own private utopia. It just makes me happy. And if nothing else in my life ever works again, I'll at least know I'm where I belong. One brilliant fall afternoon while driving home from work, during a (very) brief interlude when my mind and body were not completely consumed by the hysteria of college football, it occurred to me that not much else on Earth could compete with those harbingers of autumn that I had missed so much--the smell of burning fireplaces, the feel of the crisp air on my skin, and the energy of a town that vibrates with life this time of year. But I soon discovered that I was wrong. I was standing on my front porch late one night a few months ago, enjoying the frigid winter air, when I looked up into the dark sky and saw a handful snowflakes beginning to fall. An hour or so later, as I stood barefoot and freezing on the freshly powdered sidewalk, with a sprinkling of white in my hair and an outstretched palm to catch the flakes that were falling faster and faster, I felt alive. And I was grateful. I had forgotten that there is nothing quite like the unique silence of snow falling at midnight, or the ethereal feel of a raw winter landscape muffled by a blanket of icy whiteness. And I knew in that moment that this was where I belonged. I had missed all of these things immensely while I was away, but I didn't truly appreciate the full magnitude of it until I moved back. Standing there on that cold night, I finally understood. It's why I came home. It's why I live here. And it's why I'm staying.
He's going to be standing there for a while, judging from the sheer amount, shucking and rinsing and shucking some more, preparing the ears of corn we picked from our garden this afternoon. This spring was a mild one, and we planted the garden a bit early to fend off the hot summer's ravages with high hopes that our hours of labor would pay off in the form of something good to eat. At the start of summer, we weren't terribly optimistic about our chances, especially after last summer's soaring temperatures and long, painful stretches without rain. But so far, we have been gifted with big, fluffy lettuces, bushels of turnip greens, a literal "sack of potatoes," vines filled with sugary watermelons, succulent cucumbers, and, last but not least, 31 ears of corn (plus several that we have already eaten and thus could not include in the count). It is with this corn that I now find my husband stationed at the kitchen sink, focused and driven, preparing the harvest for the freezer. Shuck, rinse, shuck, repeat. But now, the summer has found its appetite and is looking to claim whatever victims lie under its brutal rays. We are at least a month without significant rain, and temperatures have shattered their boundaries for the second summer in a row. Trees show signs of hanging it up for the season, yards are burned, and animals venture into flower beds seeking sustenance. And yet the garden has been good to us. I can only hope the rain gods will too.
