Home is a contradiction.
Flat planes of land stretch outwards, onwards into God’s country. Rolling hills of yellow and green grasses sway in the breeze. The wind tickles at their stems in the sunlight but howls through sparse trees during the dark nights. It is vast and open and empty but here my soul settles into the gentle sway of the hills and winding rivers.
Mountains rise out of nowhere, climbing, growing forever upwards towards heaven and the clouds. Snowy peaks gleam all colors of the rainbow in the light but still keep their crispy iciness against the warmth of the sun. I know these paths well and as my boots crunch against rocky ledges and as I stand on the stone that overlooks eternity—it is here I am the smallest version of myself.
Skyscrapers loom over sidewalks, their metallic sound and concrete reverberance is noise that glints through my mind, a pleasant sort of anesthetic against the racing of my thoughts. I am anonymous here but larger because of it—here I am part of a community, one that plays acoustic Latin guitar riffs on the cobblestones with people who flow swiftly through the streets like blood rushing through my veins.
Log cabins nestle into curves in the rocks, burrowing inwards into solitude so that they can hear the heartbeat of the earth. It’s a low hum, one that I can hear when I am alone. These houses have rich wooden beams and clear glass windows—a dichotomy of architecture that somehow feels at home here in the stillness. I run my fingers between them—rough wood and cool glass. Sturdy and fragile but this is the vessel in which I live.
It could be winter or spring. The ground is wet, pregnant with moisture from the melting snow and the blossoms of fragrant wildflowers that have yet to be born. The air is like the ocean, so cold that it takes your breath away when you first dive in, but then fills you with its vastness. There is new life in the air and it is a sweet melody played in a minor key—yearning and pleasant.
The summers stretch onwards here with days that extend outwards, pushing back the night. The light lingers, spreading out over blue mountains and the sky like it doesn’t want to leave—and I feel a camaraderie with that sentimentality. Autumn is like a sunset, a quick burst of color that signals the transition between day and night. It is gone too soon but its golden warmth finds a way into my mind, a beautiful memory made permanent because of its simplicity.
Home is a contradiction. But it is one that fills my soul. It is one that lives within me.
It is me.