A place called home

A year or so ago, I had this dream that I had to move back to my hometown. I wasn’t happy about it in the dream, and apparently, I was going to live in the basement of my parents’ house. Parts of that dream were so vivid that I still remember them today. When I woke up, I brushed aside the thoughts that I was going to lose my job and laughed at the dream.

It’s a funny thing about home. It changes. I grew up in a tiny town few people can actually locate on a map. And I wouldn’t trade that experience for anything, but I also don’t want to move back. Oh, I enjoy going home for a visit and being with the people who’ve known and loved me the longest, but if I moved home I’d be almost 30, unmarried, and trained for a job that isn’t really a large part of the workforce. The me I grew up to become just doesn’t fit anymore.

As I drove to work today, I popped in an Emerson Hart CD. And as he sang the lyrics to “Green Hills Race for California,” I found myself pondering his words: “What a long trip it’s been, Many nights and the friends that we have made, How do I go back to California? How do I leave the tall trees here? Warm nights in your sweet magnolia, how do I leave the green fields? How do I go back to California?” The funny thing in all of this is that Nashville is home these days. Part of my heart will always be where my family is, but Nashville is where I became me. It’s my home, where I’ve carved out my life, and made friends that will last a lifetime.

I will always love the familiar places of my childhood, but it’s a weird moment when you realize that the place you thought you’d always call home really doesn’t fit you anymore. How would I go back? How could I leave the place I’ve grown to love?