From a recent letter to Burt...
I've been dreaming about Oregon a lot recently. Especially the mountains behind Talent -- the ones I used to affectionately call "my mountains." I used to drive those roads so frequently, and everytime a particular view of the mountains came into view, I would let out a deeply satisfied sigh. "My mountains," I would say inwardly with a pleased smile. For some reason just looking at them gave me peace and joy. Strange, really. Nothing's ever done that before for me, and nothing's done it since.
Alex and Jane enjoyed their stay with us. Jane summed up her trip thusly in her online journal, "It was one of my favorite kinds of trips, spending time with friends in various low-key but fun circumstances, like swimming and watching movies and seeing the sights and eating.... Texas was very Texan. I'm not sure it was the type of place I would have liked to go had I not had any friends there. It was flat and hot and full of big ol' trucks and suburban sprawl on a level I'd never encountered before. But there were actually some very pretty areas that were actually green and hilly." Perhaps it was reading her comments that has started up the inward pangs of missing my mountains. You couldn't call them "flat" by any stretch of the imagination.
Driving around with Alex & Jane, I was keenly aware that I wanted them to really like the place I live now. Almost like I wanted their approval. We took them to some of the most beautiful places we've experienced 'round these parts. Once or twice, we went up or down some of our most favorite, hilliest, windiest roads in the area. Roads that had originally struck me as very lovely. But then, when I looked out at the scenery with Alex & Jane in the car, all I could think of was, "man, this place is FLAT. Why did I ever think this was hilly?" In truth, there are parts of Austin that are as pleasantly hilly as Portland, and just as green (although with a different kind of flora & fauna). Those are the areas Jane mentioned that were actually "very pretty." But, I don't live anywhere near them, and even if they're hilly, they're not "my mountains." Had I moved to Portland like we'd hoped, I'd still be having these thoughts, although I'd probably be consoled that my mountains were only a five hour drive away and accessible any time we wanted to visit Alex or our home parish. And, I'd also be consoled that if I wanted to see REAL MOUNTAINS, I could stand at the top of Mount Ashland and look around, or drive North and see the Olympic Range. I wonder why I have mountain-lust.
When Steve and I were driving through Texas again for the first time in our moving truck, I remember having an intense feeling like I was "coming home" -- despite the fact that we didn't have a place to live yet, or know anyone in Austin, or know how we'd find jobs, etc. The familiar trees and landscape brought back all kinds of happy childhood feelings of belonging to a place much larger than myself. Once, while looking at the familiar hill country scenery of my youth, I even happily said, "You know, now that we're back in Texas, I don't think we're ever going to move out of the state again. You know that, don't you?" To which Steve smiled and said, "Wow, you've really missed this place, haven't you? You've been secretly missing it and your family all these years." We spent virtually every weekend the first three months we were here visiting our Texas family, making sure everyone got to meet Isaac, and feeling very welcomed. Now that the initial wave of visits is over, it's starting to feel so permanent. This isn't a new adventure anymore. This is familiar. This is home. This is the daily routine of life. And, I guess I'm giving myself the freedom to really miss Oregon. Even if I thought we'd be able to "make it" financially in Oregon (perhaps a few years from now once my copywriting business is established and I can take it with me anywhere), I'm not sure that I could move away from family ever again. So, my mountains aren't my mountains anymore. They're a place I *might* visit again someday. But, they'll not be my home.
I guess what I *really* need is to find a kind of beauty that I can carry with me everywhere I go, a home that lives within me. I need to take that inward beauty and use it to cultivate the places where I dwell outwardly. If I can do that, home will always be right where I'm at. Then, no matter what the landscape, I can look at it with satisfaction.
Wow, I can't believe I've been writing for an hour. Guess I should end this now, since I have a life to tend to.