I never thought my nomadic soul would be so pulled back to one spot so many times. I’ve wondered over 4,000 miles and didn’t expect to look back except in calm and grateful reverie. Much to my surprise I’m looking back with joy and anticipation. Back to what I fought for before; back to what I left as a girl but came back to become a wife and mother. I’ve traveled here to find my voice and my purpose and to hopefully provide my family the means to go where we are called. Home. Where mountains are as gentle as the people. Where flowers bloom almost all year, and when they’re resting, the trees explode with color in their honor. Where snow comes as a surprise but just enough, and the bears are too sleepy to bother anyone much. Where the streams sing and hiking trails lead to soft paths. This is something temporary. But who am I to say? My dreams have told me this is where we belong for now. They led us to lay down our caravan. I wish I could find a home feeling here. I wish the people were nicer. I’m grateful for the experience, but that southern place haunts me so much, like a beautiful lover that I left behind to have a grand adventure. But isn’t that exactly what it is? Didn’t Ulysses come back home again? But he had to go, didn’t he?