Calling Me Home

Summer’s here. The garden is in and doing really well. We’ve already had several green peppers from the garden, the tomato plants are bending their branches over the edges of their cages they are so laden with baby tomatoes, the potatoes I’ve planted are growing like proverbial weeds, the corn’s already knee high and it isn’t the Fourth of July yet, and once more the squash plants are threatening total domination of the garden.
And for the first time in twenty four years, we aren’t planning a trip to Wyoming. I don’t know how I feel about that, other than a part of me feels utterly empty knowing that this summer—at least—I won’t be able to find the solace that I do in such open spaces.
I’ve told so many people that I live in Indiana, but my home is in Wyoming. And, I’ve wondered more than once how it is I can feel that a place I’ve never lived in during this lifetime can be home for me.
I’m not a wanderer. I’m very much a homebody. But that place, those spaces where the perception of distance is skewed by the sheer immenseness of it all, is where my heart calls home.
I have several friends who live in Wyoming. They’re often sharing memes about Wyoming. They also share pictures of that place I call my heart’s home. I can visit vicariously. I can see the mountains which draw me in; I can view the incredible vistas with skies so blue and clear it doesn’t seem real; I can almost hear the wind whispering as it moves through the towering Ponderosa pines, the Douglas firs, the lodgepole pines, and the aspens; and I can almost smell the dryness of the land and the sharp tang of the sage…
So, to my friends who live in Wyoming…keep sharing your pictures.
I will be there. Perhaps not this summer, but I will be there. I will live there in this lifetime. Wyoming is calling me home.

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