There’s this very peculiar something about arriving in an unknown place and feeling welcomed as if one was returning to one’s own home. And these warm welcomes aren’t always extended by people; mostly, it’s the lands itself that offers a warm embrace or a grand view… or both.
When HWY 395 curved towards east for a mile or two, leading me into Bridgeport, the mountains and the late-afternoon light turned the landscape into something right out of a fairytale.
Warm and welcoming,
Majestic and protecting.
It was like if the land itself opened its arms to embrace me whole, mind and body, welcoming me home.
I’m still searching for what home means to me. But I can tell that that moment was the closest to ‘home’ I’ve ever been. And perhaps it was home. Perhaps I’ve found it that day, and perhaps it found me.
The golden grass, only just waiting to turn green.
The tall mountains, their peaks enshrouded in soft white clouds.
The weak winter sun, giving all the warmth it could.
This wasn’t going to be a post about home, yet it turned into one. Because that valley I’ve never seen before wasn’t meant to feel like home, but it turned into one for me that evening.
And this is perhaps where the truth lies. This land is our home. The mountains, rivers, forests, lakes, and deserts are our home. This planet is our home.
And perhaps we should start taking a much better care for it. Because home, a true home, is irreplacable.