Stomping Grounds

Last weekend, I loaded my Saturn with a few CD's, a water bottle, a mitt-full of cash and hit the road toward my old stomping grounds in Western Michigan. Driving along interstate 80, I sang along to my mix tapes and embraced the landscapes around me: the leaves on the mighty maples transforming into brilliant shades of auburn and gold, the Kalamazoo River blue as the sky above, and the familiar worn billboard advertising Russ' fine dining.

For the last three years, this sleepy Dutch suburb was my home. I have fond memories dancing in its cobblestone streets, exploring the infamous pine grove, and wandering around Centennial Park entranced by its twinkling Christmas light display. But, as I stepped onto the grounds of my former campus, I couldn't reconnect to these memories. I felt like a stranger, an outsider. I felt extremely out-dated. For only graduating a short time ago, my return to campus made me feel like an old alumni returning for my 30th college reunion. I did not recognize a single soul parading around the school grounds. It was in this moment I realized my college years of youth and beauty were over.

Feeling utterly depressed about my age and membership in the working world, I met my fellow graduates at a local bagel shop for a quick lunch. Surrounded by friends, food, and good conversation, I regained feelings of warmth and love. I found my home once again. There is an old saying that, "home is where the heart is" and I now fully understand this proverb. While the physical structure or landscape of a home contributes to an overall feeling of inclusion and safety, it is the people with whom the house is filled that really makes the structure a home.

Though I am still saddened by the fact that I am growing up and progressing through the chapters of life, I am comforted by the relationships I have with friends throughout the globe and the memories shared on 12th Street.