I feel better when I’m on dirt. I do. New York, Paris, Sydney, sure, great places, but I’m happiest when I have dust on me. Open space. There isn’t anything like it. It’s open, but it’s not empty or boring. It’s teaming with things that you might not think about until you are left with only your thoughts. Outside yesterday. Briefly. Lots of snow and ice and left my steel crampons in the basement. 9000 feet up. Complete and total silence. Not even the wind. Just traces of a fall long since past.
The world is a beautiful, terrifying, amazing place. But home is home.
I envy your ongoing connection with the places of your youth. I never stayed put long enough, the places of my youth are just ghost towns to me. Home is where my stuff and my people are.
But whatever home means to us, it’s good to be there.
This place just does something to me. Wyoming was my kid place, and might still be my place had we not moved, but New Mexico is just a strange place where in the course of an hour you will see and feel so many different things.