Lessons in Learning How to Rest, Part Eight.

Lesson Eight: Let your freak flag fly.

I was sitting on the beach today just letting a slapdash stream of consciousness flow through my mind, when out of nowhere my thoughts landed on a memory I hadn't visited in years. It was almost as if I had invented a past memory that wasn't mine. It was so...out of character for the girl that writes this blog today.

Or was it that this girl just forgot a part of herself that still existed?

This City Girl is sorry to have to admit that in the middle of finding herself all over again and laying down some new ground rules for her life, she wasn't having as much fun as she used to. Even with the quick wit and dry humor, having unadulterated fun was not a part of daily life. Sarcasm and the occasional humorously odd observation does not (necessarily) a fun girl make.

Breaking into a 5 star hotel, stripping down and skinny dipping in a rooftop pool for 15 minutes until you get kicked out by the management, however...

A few months ago I had a short, but funny conversation with a boy I was dating. We were in the middle of a romantic entangling when he pulled away from my lips long enough to say, with an inquisitive tone, "You're kind of wild." I hadn't been labeled wild since high school. In fact, I couldn't really remember the last time I was truly "wild" by the world's definition. I had just polished off a crazy two years full of dramatic situations, haphazardly dating parts of Oregon and California, and heartbreaking lessons, but only once or twice had I acted like a wild child. If that!

Remembering the hotel incident today awakened a small part of me. And I'm happy to say that a new breeze is now blowing through my daily thoughts. I don't know how often my tempestuous side will make an appearance, but heaven help the uptight bystander that happens to be near when it does. Because I make no promises or apologies for where this City Girl's freak flag may fly!

There's no place like home.

I drove myself back to The Beach yesterday. I've been staying with good friends since I got here and waiting for "the feeling" to hit me. The feeling that tells me I'm home. The feeling that makes everything all right, perfect. It hasn't yet. If anything, driving around this place kind of feels like visiting my old high school haunts...or something along those lines. Every street corner is so familiar and crowded with memories, but clearly feels like a place from my past.

After 6 or so hours of driving yesterday I did something I never do. I turned off the radio and drove the last hour in silence. It was beautiful. A perfect hour of peace that surrounded me and filled up all the spaces of my car. I had had ideas pass through my mind all day, or rather day dreams, but in that last hour I thought clear, concise thoughts. Thoughts that mattered. Thoughts that meant something to me then and even now, today.

I realized before I even reached The Beach that no matter where I land next it won't feel like home. At least not right away. The road has become my home. The airport is my living room and hallway. Random couches and hotels have become my bedroom. My life fits best into a 22" x 14" piece of luggage. Wanderlust has become my lifestyle.