Dear Keren,
This summer has been full of randomness. Mostly because whenever someone calls, as much as I can, I drop everything to go hang out with them. Who knows when the next time will be?
But the one recurring pattern for this summer has been the 30 minute drive through the cornfields to get to Noblesville to bead and to share stories. I still think it's weird for me to think of it this way, but that weekly 30 minute drive has provided some sense of normalcy and routine.
As I drove through those cornfields today, I was suddenly brought back to the first time I took my own solitary road trip. I was going to Courtney and Kyle's wedding, and driving Andrew's car since he was in Uganda and his car was going to just be sitting in the parking lot at church. The winding cornfields and country roads that took me from Anderson to Monticello. Ah, yes. Wide open spaces. I was starting to fall in love.
The date was May 7, 2004. I had just landed in these cornfields and someone had signed me up for my auditions with the Music Department. The events of that weekend was such a whirlwind, and then we were off on our roadtrip. I think there were 7 women, and my poor pastor, the only male. Anyhow, at one of the bed and breakfast places that we stopped at, I remember this guy asking us what in the world we were doing in the cornfields of Indiana. I don't remember what our response was, but it was something along the lines of, I didn't know we were in the middle of cornfields.
Having spent a significant part of my life in the city, it was weird for my mum and I to think about me spending the next four years of my life in the middle of cornfields. New experiences were exciting, but I wasn't sure I would ever feel at home in the middle of cornfields.
Driving through the cornfields today, I realised a few things: 1) Growing up in the city, I always knew what bus or train got me to where I needed to go, but I could never tell you what street the place is on, or how to drive there. 2) I still got lost around the cornfields some, but I knew I-69, I-465, I-65 and I-70, SR-32 and SR-37 well enough to maneuver around without getting too frustrated. 3) I couldn't deny it any longer: the cornfields have become home too.
And I hear them calling. Softly. Tenderly.
But they don't say come home, come home.
They say go. Take off. Soar. Fly.
But remember where you are rooted.
Not just in the wide open spaces and the cornfields.
Not just in the bright lights of the big city.
But in the spiritual beings that give you home.
And come back when it's time.
And take off again when it's time.
Home will never hold you back from being the best you you can be.
Dear Keren, you have been a big part of helping me find my home. Not just while you were here those three years. But even in the life after, our friendship continues to remind me that home is never simply a geographical location.
Home is the souls that you can keep in your pockets and take with you wherever the wind blows.
Home is the little notes to cheer you on in the middle of the battle.
Home is, I believe you.
Home is, I'd love to keep you here, but you need to go so you can be the best you you can be.
Softly and tenderly, the cornfields are calling...
Go on...
Go on.
This summer has been full of randomness. Mostly because whenever someone calls, as much as I can, I drop everything to go hang out with them. Who knows when the next time will be?
But the one recurring pattern for this summer has been the 30 minute drive through the cornfields to get to Noblesville to bead and to share stories. I still think it's weird for me to think of it this way, but that weekly 30 minute drive has provided some sense of normalcy and routine.
As I drove through those cornfields today, I was suddenly brought back to the first time I took my own solitary road trip. I was going to Courtney and Kyle's wedding, and driving Andrew's car since he was in Uganda and his car was going to just be sitting in the parking lot at church. The winding cornfields and country roads that took me from Anderson to Monticello. Ah, yes. Wide open spaces. I was starting to fall in love.
The date was May 7, 2004. I had just landed in these cornfields and someone had signed me up for my auditions with the Music Department. The events of that weekend was such a whirlwind, and then we were off on our roadtrip. I think there were 7 women, and my poor pastor, the only male. Anyhow, at one of the bed and breakfast places that we stopped at, I remember this guy asking us what in the world we were doing in the cornfields of Indiana. I don't remember what our response was, but it was something along the lines of, I didn't know we were in the middle of cornfields.
Having spent a significant part of my life in the city, it was weird for my mum and I to think about me spending the next four years of my life in the middle of cornfields. New experiences were exciting, but I wasn't sure I would ever feel at home in the middle of cornfields.
Driving through the cornfields today, I realised a few things: 1) Growing up in the city, I always knew what bus or train got me to where I needed to go, but I could never tell you what street the place is on, or how to drive there. 2) I still got lost around the cornfields some, but I knew I-69, I-465, I-65 and I-70, SR-32 and SR-37 well enough to maneuver around without getting too frustrated. 3) I couldn't deny it any longer: the cornfields have become home too.
And I hear them calling. Softly. Tenderly.
But they don't say come home, come home.
They say go. Take off. Soar. Fly.
But remember where you are rooted.
Not just in the wide open spaces and the cornfields.
Not just in the bright lights of the big city.
But in the spiritual beings that give you home.
And come back when it's time.
And take off again when it's time.
Home will never hold you back from being the best you you can be.
Dear Keren, you have been a big part of helping me find my home. Not just while you were here those three years. But even in the life after, our friendship continues to remind me that home is never simply a geographical location.
Home is the souls that you can keep in your pockets and take with you wherever the wind blows.
Home is the little notes to cheer you on in the middle of the battle.
Home is, I believe you.
Home is, I'd love to keep you here, but you need to go so you can be the best you you can be.
Softly and tenderly, the cornfields are calling...
Go on...
Go on.
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