Tuesday, January 29, 2013

Back in July:

After many months of neglecting this blog, since I now have a Tumblr account and a severe Pinterest addiction, I came across this entry written last summer. My heart was too raw to post it at the time, but I'm ready now. In the spirit of putting it out there, here goes:


This is me in a 100% authentic moment of pure joy.
Apparently you can't take the country out of the girl.


I've found myself in a strange place. I've just returned home to suburban Vancouver after spending more than a week in my homeland, The Prairies. Now something just doesn't feel right. I am feeling crowded and claustrophobic. More than once the open sky of Saskatchewan caused me to weep. They don't call it the Land of Living Skies for nothing, you know? Not to mention the restless breeze rippling over the fields and the endless sunshiny horizon dotted with little farmhouses and barns. Those damn roots run deep.


My farmhouse (too heartbreakingly run down for a close-up)


We drove out to the farmhouse I grew up in. Even though it was dreadfully run down, happy memories of my childhood swept over me like the ocean waves I've grown accustomed to here on the West Coast. Standing in the disheveled barnyard where my sister and I once played for countless hours, I tried to quiet my heart, but I couldn't. It was too late. The floodgates had already been flung open. I tried to maintain some sort of composure for my kids, but it wasn't easy. Luckily the horseflies who swarmed us provided a welcome, yet terrifying distraction from the still undefinable emotions I was feeling and have felt ever since.

Country road, take me home, To the place I belong

My husband left the safety of our car and braved the evil horseflies once more to retrieve a piece of beautifully weathered barnboard from my family home. Tucking our unlikely souvenier safely in the back, he put his hand on my knee and said, "Should we check out the church?" I nodded, unable to speak. The Church is a tiny, century-old country church called St. John's Lutheran Church. It is perhaps the sweetest little white church in the entire vast landscape of where I grew up. And it was visible from my bedroom window, a constant beacon of hope and peace.


St. John's, my beautiful beacon surround by fields of gold.


So with the gravel crunching beneath the tires (one of the most comforting sounds to let you know you're in the country now) we made our way down the road which meanders quite lackadaisically through picturesque fields and around sloughs. When we pulled into the churchyard, it was empty, but not abandoned. Such a peaceful spot to walk around and just be. The bugs somehow relented and we were able to  wander through the gentle energy of the churchyard, looking at the gravestones, pointing out to the kids where their great, great, great grandparents had been laid to rest.



My son, the newly discovered farm boy, loved every second of country life.


We left for home the next day. I cried on and off all the way to Alberta. Somehow I have become homesick for a place that only exists in my memories, since nothing much is the same. It's not as though I want to uproot my family and move back there. I love my life here. I'm not sure what's missing, but you can be damn sure I won't rest until I find it.


2 comments:

  1. I loved your post. It makes me think of Saskchewan. I miss it back home too. It makes me miss all of the family, the family farm and Baba. All those days spent running in the fields, causing trouble. Thanks for bringinng back the memories.

    Kat

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  2. Wow.! Even brought back memories from the stone age . Well, I'm not that old, but feel the warm sun and smell the smells. Thanks

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