Home, for me.
Home. That sounds nice doesn't it? The word holds an overwhelming comfort for me. Home means a farm almost a thousand miles from NYC.
I grew up on a little farm in Illinois. I’d run around in the fields all day. We had a smokehouse in the back which became my playhouse.
My imagination roamed free on my farm. I felt like I could take on the world. I’lll never forget the smell of fresh grass in the spring. I loved walking barefoot everywhere, always trying to find wildflowers for childlike arrangements.
Space can be so invigorating. I have that on the farm. It’s heaven.
Now I live in the Big Apple. I miss the farm. I miss the quiet, soft sounds of grass blowing in the field or birds singing in the cool of the morning.
I suppose I’ve replaced these sounds with new ones. -The sound of perturbed drivers honking, sirens going off, or a random jackhammer rumbling away. These sounds have become comforting too. It’s funny, I know.
Somehow, home becomes a comfort zone wherever it is. The large building surrounding me in New York City has turned into a kind of security blanket. When I leave this comfortable place and hop on a train, I can travel anywhere my imagination takes me.
Much like my farm house, NYC has become home to me. The sounds, sights and smells invigorate my imagination. Just like that, I have two homes: my farm house on the hill and my apartment nestled in New York.
I guess I can take on the world in both an open field and a concrete jungle. Here’s to that.