Sometimes I feel like I’m stranded on a concrete island in a sea of grass. To the East, a full tank of gas will get me to Oklahoma City. To the West, it will get me to Santa Fe. On days like today, my car becomes a vessel of freedom, and my heart becomes a compass, pointing me onward.
It’s not that I’m unhappy here. I have no reason to be unhappy, but for some reason, my happiness feels shallow, like craving a lungful of air but getting a dozen quick, short breaths instead. I need more.
“You’re a battleship in a fishing village,” a man told me once, and I cried because I wanted to believe him so badly. “You reek of fish,” he said.
Lately I've been feeling something I can only describe as homesickness. I want to go home, but I don’t know where home is. I've been praying for God to send me to the place where I can throw down my anchor. He hasn't told me where that is yet, but I have a feeling it's just over the horizon.
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