|Flying over the patchwork quilt|
of farming somewhere over Colorado
As I write, seated on a plane next to me is a fellow-Nashvillian-replant. She from Portland, Oregon, and me from - welpst, all over.
After babies and 52 years in one state, she relocated to our little city of hospitality about eight years ago and loves it. However, it's the personal history with friends and locale she misses from home. She longs for the instant connectivity of falling into easy conversation with a former high school classmate or giving directions to the favorite coffee spot known to locals. She skis and misses the quick one hour to perfect, snowy slopes.
I get it.
Although being from everywhere and nowhere, I enjoy my longtime association with Music City and the nooks out of sight from tourists, but am eager to direct the tourists to my favorite locals' haunt.
There is community in living in one place where neighbors check on neighbors leaving veggies on the porch and friends become family when Thanksgiving finds the road too long and the holiday weekend too short. And, if you're blessed to have them nearby, real family hugs you tightly each time you see each other, picks up the mail and takes care of your dog while you're away.
See, I do get it.
I will always adore the thrill of new places and the journey to get there, but am growing to appreciate there's truly no place like home.