Going Home

I was born in a small town. And I lived in a small town … ummm, yeh, no I’m not going to quote John Mellencamp to the extreme here. My brain just works this way.

Mellencamp aside, the fact remains. I did grow up in a small town. I had a great group of friends and, unlike some of them, I didn’t really have the itch to leave. Life, of course, had other plans and I did leave. Then, life brought me home until opportunity pushed me to leave again.

My parents have moved away now, but no matter how long I’m away or how far I go, this place will always be my home. I will forever be connected to it. So much of my life happened there – so many ages, so many stages. I’ve painted this beautiful landscape of what like was like … a sort of mental Monet-esque picture of what it was like. You know, beautiful and a little fuzzy on some of the details.

That’s an intriguing idea, really (no, not the art thing - although me painting like Monet would be something to behold). I mean, my perceptions of this place are frozen in time. In the colors, tones, and moods of the day … not to mention the styles and trends. They are stuck in memories that, I’m fairly certain, are a bit fuzzy. It was a long time ago now and I’m getting old.

Could it be that I fondly remember things that that were not all that warm and fuzzy? It wouldn’t be the first time that I’ve romanticized a notion, that’s for sure. Could it be that those things I’d rather not remember weren’t actually all that bad? And does it matter?

In my Monet world, heading home is a bit like sitting at a table full of comfort food. You crave it and after eating your fill, you are satisfied and comfortable for a while. It’s a warm, content, and comfortable feeling.

So, in the end I guess it doesn’t really matter if you look at my Monet see a Picasso. It doesn’t matter at all. I see it as I see it … warm, inviting, comfortable, and as if I never left.