I never thought I would leave Colorado. I could have easily just implanted and died there. But I blinked and it was gone – just like that. I’m not one to look back. I’ve learned the hard way that going in reverse is not only dangerous, it’s foreign to the human spirit – at least the healthy human spirit.
So, the truck was packed. The keys handed over to an elderly lady who I wasn’t quite sure would take care of my mother’s pink lilies. I was also just a tiny bit worried that she would unearth the dog’s body buried in the backyard. I pushed all thoughts of what-if out of my mind and pulled out of Kensing Circle in Colorado Springs, Colorado. I did not look back to say “good-bye” to a house I fell in love with the first time I saw it.
I cautioned myself not to fall in love with a house but it happened anyway.
The biggest regret I have is that from now on, when I head home from somewhere, there will be no excitement at the first sight of mountains looming ahead. It’s usually around the time you hit Fort Morgan that you see the outline of mountains in the distance. I learned to breathe a sigh of relief every time I headed west. I was going home.
Now, home is signified when I cross the bridge and drive along the bluffs that run alongside the Mississippi River. No mountains in this state. Just long stretches of Minnesota corn and soy bean fields. I love farmland. It’s comforting. It’s where food grows. It represents long traditions of families working the soil and their hands to the bone to eek out a living.
I miss Colorado. I miss my mountains.
I don’t miss the years wandering on the fringes – spiritually dead.
Leaving led me to an awareness of just how far I’d wandered from truth and from the voice I used to hear – the Holy Spirit.
But realization doesn’t mean I don’t have days when my spirit feels as dead and dried out as those leaves leftover after fall.