Apparently you can go home again. And apparently it can be exciting and relaxing and comforting in a manner you’d never have believed possible in your teens. Or even last year, for that matter.
I spent a week in New Mexico over Christmas during which I was in a state of what can only be described as giddiness.
It was a much needed reprieve from the demands of adulthood and pseudo-autonomy.
First of all, the snow covered sage and farolito adorned adobes screamed Winter Wonderland. The sites were so comfortingly familiar and even more beautiful thanks to the objectivity (or, perhaps, the subjectivity) of passing time. I missed the incredible amounts of vast, virgin land. The imposing purple mountains. The red hillsides. The winding canyons. The always breathtaking Rio Grande Gorge.
I missed the way we communicate directions in Taos. Always referring to businesses as what they once were, despite how much times has passed and how many organizations have come and gone in that space. The relay of directions in relation to landmarks that Google Maps could never effectively lead you to.
And the food. Oh, the food. Red and green chile cheese smothered everything. Enchiladas. Tamales. Posole. Tacos. Chile Rellenos. Delicious is an understatement.
But mostly I missed the people. My parents. Friends from high school and college. Falling into old habits and easy conversations despite the expanse of time and poor correspondence. The random people I consistently run into, yet never properly meet.
I grew up resenting New Mexico. The remoteness of it. The lack of pop cultural activities. The dearth of major bodies of water. Constantly feeling like an outsider peering in.
But I grew to love it, to cherish its unique intersection of three distinct cultures. Its laid back, land-of-mañana attitude. The breathtaking landscapes, most especially the high deserts of the north.
I’ve left and returned to New Mexico many times and this was indisputably the happiest homecoming. The ability to absorb and love it came from knowing I wouldn’t be stuck there. True to my commitment phobic form I fully immersed myself because I was acutely aware my time was limited. As with all joyous epochs of my life, I cherished my impermanence there.
I don’t know that I’ll ever shake my perceived outsider status, it only seems more unlikely as the weeks and months turn into years since I’ve claimed residency. However, accepting the fact that I’ll never properly feel as though I belong or fit in, but recognizing it as home anyway has already filled me with longing for the next journey back.
Te amo, New Mexico. Y te extraño.
The Seattle Thaw 