remember

 

I’m a heavy thinker. I ask a lot of questions, not out loud, but in my head… lots of whys and what-ifs. I imagine every scenario. I picture the possibilities of tomorrow, next month, next year, a few decades from now. And the one thing that all this questioning does, without fail, is bring my thoughts back home—back to our little house on our little farm with our marshland, our mountain vistas, and our motley array of animals.

I was the girl who breathed in huge gulps of mellow September air just to make sure that, someday, when I lived somewhere else, I would remember. I was the girl who stopped at every chance to pet whichever cat was begging for attention so that, someday, when that cat was gone, I would remember. I was the girl who let my horse’s reins loose for a no-hands, no-helmet sprint so that, someday, when I didn’t have the chance to do that anymore, I would remember.

If there is one word of wisdom that I never failed to live by growing up, it is that old saying: take time to stop and smell the roses. It’s true that the things you miss the most are the ones that seem the smallest at the time. When I feel lonely and homesick in Florida, I don’t think of extraordinary vacations or unusual events that took place. I think of the smell of the air… the angle of the light… the sound of my horse’s nicker… the silent descent of snowflakes from a gray November sky.

But the line between appreciating the memory and dwelling on the past is sometimes a small one. As much as I miss it, home isn’t where God has me right now. If I’m not careful, my reminiscence could dull my senses to experiencing the small things of where I am today. I need to be the girl who takes long moments to breathe in the essence of living in a little dormitory in the middle of a little town in the heart of Florida, so that, someday, when I’m not here anymore, I remember.

golden hour on the lake

 

the tears don’t hurt, but the ache does

 

I love Florida. I love the adventure of being away from home, of studying the Bible like I always wanted, of meeting so many new people, of tasting the little nuances of Southern culture. I love the times when I get up to go running at six in the morning and can just barely tell that the air is getting cooler. I love the freak thunderstorms, the sunsets over the lake, the lizards and toads that are everywhere, the word “y’all,” and the arguments I get into over whether to call soft drinks “sodas,” “pops,” or “cokes.” (It’s pop all the way, people.)

But I miss home. Especially home in October.

I remember driving down the Klickitat gorge to meet my best friend for class on Monday mornings—keeping a wary eye out for deer in the road and admiring the blur of yellowing leaves on the hillsides. I remember waiting outside the grange hall every afternoon at 3 o’ clock to rehearse for Twelfth Night. I remember the transition from the crisp warm Indian summer air to the wet chilliness of the fall rains. All of these pictures from last year and the year before come with so much emotional and sensory attachment for me that I ache to be there again.

Sometimes, missing the entire season of fall back home is one of the hardest things about living in the opposite corner of the continent. There are a few other northerners in my midst who know what I mean, but otherwise, the Floridians just look at me and say, “This is fall.”

No… no it isn’t.

sebring sunset

Another one of my favorite things about Florida is how the thunder clouds look at sunset. :)

sebring skies

 

My favorite thing about Florida is probably the thunderstorms that seem to come out of nowhere almost every day.