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.