Newscoma

The baggage, born from my Southern upbringing, follows me with every step and breath I take. It is filled with magic and dark elements, of a life lived and yet to live.

Of dirty nasty things as well as small boxes of live and a life lived, this trunk that goes with me everywhere I go.

I am constantly confounded how it is chained to me, to who I am. I stare at it warily, wondering if there is a way to leave it in the closet when I leave for the day to another eight hours of work, where I try, and often fail, to make a difference.

I left here, you know. Although I’m the biggest advocate for this small patch of dirt, farmland and ancient trees to be paid the attention it honestly deserves because there is many that don’t even know of our existence, I often look away from here. I seek cold weather or the beach where I could hear the waves of another watery world lull me to sleep.

I left this little patch of dirt. I went away where there was a lot more diversity than I go through daily now. I stood on the cobble streets of Amsterdam and I was different. I eyed artwork in museums that made my heart explode from knowing that there were things bigger, and alas, better than myself and it gave me hope.

I was schooled all over although I never received a college degree as I put on my Fedora and went to work as an apprentice in a different world that adored hard work and loyalty, which I have sadly lost now. Loyalty to people I still have, loyalty to those I thought would make things right, not so much. I studied theater in Montreal, I learned how to understand other languages although I never was very good at speaking them. I looked at buildings five times older than this country. I saw a junkie die in front of a Burger King in Amsterdam. I’ve seen others die since then but nothing will ever be as horrifying as that.

Yet I also saw Van Gogh’s sunflowers and the Mona Lisa at the Louvre in Paris, that is the size of spiral notebook. I didn’t know it was that small. I was oddly charmed.

My Southern baggage followed, a beast of beauty and darkness in my soul that was mired in being the offspring of baby boomers more confused than I was, gentle souls had one foot in the past and one foot in a new world of free love and open minds that confused them. They had their Southern baggage too in a time of assassinations of a beloved president, the cold war and marrying because it was expected in the Bible Belt. Thus, I became confused from their confusion. I looked for grounding, for certainty of what my life was supposed to be as I grew older. I was different yet I was the same.

Life moved on.

As I sit in the county of my birth in a small town in northwest Tennessee, I often kid about being geographically challenged. I mean it and it tears up my soul over the small things. I want to be where the action is happening. It’s easy to say “Just move” but I am immersed here (and sadly need insurance which in this day and age goes with a job.)

I moved home because of a beloved ill parent. My old normal evolved into a new normal, one I have never been comfortable with. I became the eccentric woman that kept others at a distance because it was easier created from the great books of Southern authors who knew their audience needed something different and it worked and became me. I love you guys, but you are at arm’s length because you scare me more than a man in a hockey mask and a knife. I do not wish to be abandoned. I’m different but I’m not.

And then, after years, after burying a parent and losing the closeness with another, after seeing my loved ones conform and oddly comfortable, I couldn’t find their sense of ease which confused me again. I buried myself deeper in within the depths of my soul. My Southern baggage intact to the point that it became an extension of me, but was it me?

I didn’t know.

I dream of Portland, Oregon. Cannon Beach, rather, where the ancient mountains of stone rise from the cold waves of the Pacific. I have only been once for a week, but it enters my dreams at night and I don’t know why it calls to me.

I love my dogs and those who love me. I could never have children so they have become my family. I love what I affectionately call Hoots. I do not like the misogyny that I see, that I fight against with a smile and a firm voice. I am not a woman editor, I’m just an editor. I’m not that funny woman, I’m just that funny person. I don’t have to rage on this blog about it. Why should I? It’s my life, not anyone else’s. What I do in my non-virtual world probably wouldn’t interest you in the least. You know me, but you don’t know me. It’s part of this new digital world. We know each other, yet we have to learn each other through writing, and then through looking at each other in the eyes.

I wish to have someone to talk to here that looks beyond the obvious where we have a conversation. I have learned to listen and ask questions. Very rarely are questions asked of me and about me. It’s sad but not unexpected. It is the way that it is here. I ask the questions so you can talk about … you. And then, on occasion, I’m asked why I do this by perspective smart folks.

It is learned behavior.

As a child, I saw myself living in an urban apartment with an herb garden in the window looking on a concrete landscape jungle where I would walk down the street for an espresso and a chocolate croissant, like I did in Montreal. Where I would take the train and a car was unnecessary and if I wanted a book, I wouldn’t have to drive 50 miles to make my choice. Where I could walk to my favorite tavern and my favorite moviehouse, as I did in Montreal. I learned how to make plans and time management in the rolling hills of Hoots.

Yet I like Hooterville in many ways. I see opportunities although I don’t have the money to make them happen. I see a vibrant college town that needs more vibrancy and has some good leadership, but needs stronger leadership. I see this as indicative of any small town in this state. We are dismissed because of our rural status, landlocked, and I am perplexed that I am dismissed because of my affection for this place at times.

However, I dream of Portland and a new world, or the mountains where the cold bites your face. I dream of the plants still thriving here when there was more money and more opportunity here.

It’s time to let go of Southern baggage.

Not yours, my friends.

Mine.