Leaving Home: Part 2 #atlasgirl blog tour post

This post is part of the Atlas Girl Blog Tour which I am delighted to be a part of along with hundreds of inspiring bloggers. To learn more and join us, CLICK HERE!   This is the second part of my post about leaving, and ultimately finding, home. 

What image comes into your mind when you hear the word "wanderlust"?  Do you see a woman on a mountaintop, arms outstretched, wind whipping her hair?  Or maybe exotic locations, waterfalls and ancient temples, a road less traveled?  When I was 21, hopping all over North America as a flight attendant, I would belt out the lyrics to Sara Evans "Born to Fly".  I had the Wanderlust, and I was not alone.  Most of my co-workers lived as nomads.  We had our base city, bare apartments shared with several other people called "crash pads", friends and family that we visited on our days off, but nowhere we called home.  Ever since my family had left Texas, home hadn't been the place where I lived.  So I was searching for it in every city I visited.  In August 2003, I lost a friend.  A roommate.  A fellow flight attendant.  It rocked my world.  I wasn't sure what I believed or who I was, but as I emerged from the haze of grief, I realized that the rest of my life could be a few more weeks or 75 more years.  What was I waiting for?  Finally, I planned a trip that was sure to cure my wanderlust:  I was heading to Paris.  I pictured myself at the Eiffel Tower, eating crepes and wearing fabulous jeans and finally pulling off red lipstick, visiting art museums and in general being the best version of myself.

Somehow in the months to come, my European adventure included my mother.  For me, it was the realization of an adolescent dream, a first step to the life I was meant to live.  I don't know what it was for her. (A week before we left, she asked, with a crinkle in her nose, "Now what is there to do in Paris?"  I gave her an exasperated look and began, "Well the Louvre for one..." and she interrupted, "OOO, yes!  Can we go for a gondola ride on the Louvre?"  I couldn't even begin to explain everything that was wrong with that sentence.)  We flew in to Spain, took another short flight to Frankfurt, where we stayed with friends (Germany in a nutshell:  terrified by the Autobahn, entranced by the medieval castles, loved the cake in the Black Forest, sampled blood sausage).  And then....we boarded a train for Paris.

I felt euphoric as we hurtled toward the City of Lights, my nose pressed against the glass.  We found a cute little hotel run by a married couple (who made cafe au lait and baguettes for breakfast), ate some dinner at a nearby restaurant, only had 3 fights between the train station and our shared bed, and I fell asleep to the noises of the city.  In the morning, I was ready for Paris to sweep me off my feet.  My mom and I walked all day.  We saw a brasserie, a bucherie, a pharmacie.  The Arc de Triomphe.  The Louvre.  The Champs Elysee.  We bought chic clothes.  At twilight on my mother's 45th birthday, we dined at the foot of the Eiffel Tower.  And I fell asleep disappointed.  Because there was also the endless claxoning of emergency vehicles.  The overwhelming smell of Armpit on the Underground.  The aggressive Asian tourists.  And my mom was the only familiar sight.

When people asked, "How was Paris?", their eyes alight, waiting breathlessly for some tale of adventure, all I could say was, "It wasn't what I thought it'd be."  In all my planning, I'd forgotten a very powerful force.  Like Lord Voldemort, I had underestimated LOVE.  Going to Paris was the most important thing to me....even more important than the ring I was wearing on my left hand.  You see, all through school and flying, I'd also been falling in love.  I kept returning to Ohio for him, once a week, every other week (3 weeks apart only twice, and how those weeks dragged).  A month before my trip, he'd placed the ring on my finger and asked for my hand, but he hadn't factored into my plans.  Each day I had struggled with European pay phones and walked away frustrated, unable to connect across the time zones.  I just wanted to hear his voice.  And, while it didn't have the outcome I thought it would, my journey across the ocean did help me realize where my home was.  It was in his arms.

I started to resent Ohio a little less as we settled there, not far from the place where I'd felt like a Texas girl in an Ohio world.  In 2007, I gave birth to my beautiful baby James and we bought a house with a big yard and rooms for the other children I suddenly wanted.  And it's through the eyes of my boys that I see and appreciate what makes Ohio our home.  Jumping into a pile of multi-hued leaves.  The many, many uses for snow (snowballs, snowmen, snow cream).  The excitement when football seasons starts, though I'll never forsake my Dallas Cowboys.  And the church downtown that welcomes us, loves us, teaches me the truest meaning of family.

Chris asked me recently if I still wanted to move away, and I was finally able to answer NO.  My need to feel significant isn't defined by a place, it's filled in the arms of the people I love.  It doesn't matter where we lay our heads, as long as we lay together.

Emily T. Wierenga, award-winning journalist and author of 4 books, has released her first memoir, Atlas Girl: Finding Home in the Last Place I Thought to Look. They say the book is like “Girl Meets God” meets “Wild” meets “Eat, Pray, Love.” I say the book is inspiring. You can grab a copy here.