The third picture could have taken me in many different directions; remembering my past as a child of the Dakotas, or speaking about being drawn back to my Kansas roots, or some combination of the two. But when I sat down to really look at this picture, I couldn't help but feel like the farmer was experiencing a moment of blissful freedom - and that was certainly something I could relate to.
As I mentioned in yesterday's post, A. and I made the decision that I should keep my apartment in Lawrence for another year. Many of my friends and co-workers have stared at me, wide-eyed, insisting that this is a huge mistake, and do I really want to keep making this ridiculous drive, and I could be so much closer to work and to A. ... but sitting here in the quiet of a warm and windy spring morning with windows open wide, I know I made the right choice. Although my second home is in midtown KC, Sunday mornings there never smell this amazing or feel this peaceful. Maybe I should just show the naysayers this poem.
Metropolitan Claustrophobia
You have taught me to appreciate
being wrapped, not only in your arms,
but in the busy, noisy rhythm
of your beloved city.
I see, now, how a place so tightly packed
can also be open and loving,
and that sounds of happiness
can drown out the sirens.
But like a northern Dixie Chick,
I need my wide open spaces
where, eating breakfast,
all you can hear is the wind
and the crunch of granola.
I breathe easier
when my left elbow hangs out the window
(far more naturally than yours)
and my bass beats loudly –
not to impress, but because
I assume no one else will hear.
I am from the city, too,
but in my city, I could always see the sky,
smell the earth, and hear the changes of the weather.
Open prairie is an undeniable part of me, even now.
So though it pains me each time I leave you,
nothing beats the freedom of coming home.
April 3rd, 2011
