Coming Home.

Nostalgia is rare in the busy and fast pasted race our society idealizes as life. Time to reflect on the past is counter intuitive to the futuristic drive that pushes us all forward at a screaming pace. This weekend has been different for me.

I have often been criticized for taking too much time, being too thoughtful, reflecting on where I came from instead of focusing on where I am going. I understand that both are important though drag my heels when told to hurry up, simply because I am stubborn and enjoy the angst it can cause to the hurriers around me. Sorry.

This morning, while following the directions given by a dear friend to find her car (left as collateral for the fun she and I would have downtown), I also found my childhood home. I had not laid eyes on the house numbered 1113 since I was 6 years old. While yellow shag carpet on the stairs is gone and most of the corner lot, once an entire universe to me, was filled with stuccoed, grandiose,  modernity I was brought back to the time and place where I learned to ride my red bike without training wheels down that road, almost blinded by the brightness of the sun as I sped on with the wind in my hair. I vividly remember listening to my grandmother reminisce about her own childhood as I played in the grass while she swung in her hammock over head. As I drove back towards downtown I passed my first school, remembering just the corner (NE) where my 6 year old self and her best friend promised to marry each other when they were older because, of course, boys were icky.

These days, being at that age when everything seems like a forward push to figure out 'where we're going' and 'who we're going to be' remembering exactly where I came from was such a humbling and inspiring gift. Today I am going on, blinded by the sun and high on the wind in my hair.