I went back to Oklahoma this weekend. My trips home have traditionally been an obligatory visit for family and a few close friends. I would sit through lunches and dinners listening to who got married and who’s having babies, which made me want get right back on a plane to San Francisco - where people wait until a decent age to commit themselves for eternity, if they ever do.
This trip was different. Maybe the novelty of San Francisco is wearing off. Maybe the more I get to know myself the more I realize Oklahoma made me who I am. Or maybe I just don’t know myself like I thought I did.
I spent my few days home with old friends who appreciate Irish whiskey, work in the wine industry, and give me tips on meditation. I was introduced to a great cup of coffee and a damn fine microbrewery. I went skinny dipping in warm lake water, saw shooting stars and enjoyed an old-fashioned Oklahoma thunderstorm – all the simple things I forgot I missed. Not to mention, there is just something about those Midwestern boys.
Although I know I’ll never move back to Oklahoma, it wasn’t such a bad place to grow up. It made me grounded and practical. And now that I think about it, I still catch myself calling it home.