Texas, Heather. Heather, Texas.

Image by velo_city via Flickr

I'm writing to get over the hump. I've never before written in this state, this town, or this room. I don't associate my present surroundings with writing. I don't associate my present surroundings with anything. It's all new and unfamiliar. Grey, cold, and confusing.

I lost it the other day. Freaked out and panicked. I thought we'd made a huge mistake in coming here to Texas. I've moved a lot, but always within the lap of Mother California. One town is as good as the next was my way of thinking. Wherever you go, there you are, and there's always something good about any place new, something to be discovered and learned from. Each move has marked a new era in my life. Some good, some not so good, but most downright enlightening.

The unknown has a way of making our demons scramble for a better foothold, and they temporarily reveal themselves in the process.

Here in Texas things look similar, but feel different. I have no ties that bind. I am floating. I can't feel a memory off to my left, across town, where I sought a book and chased Joe Joe around the corner of an aisle in Barnes & Noble, heady with the scent of wordlust, simmering ideas, and Starbucks coffee.

I associate my former home with writing. It was there that I sat awake reading the Twilight series, and wondering to myself if perhaps I might be capable of writing something like that someday. It was there that I woke up early, too early, and plunked myself down in my chair and stared at my computer and typed away my subconscious concerns.

Not here. Here it is cold and scary and foreign. People are really into chicken here. I mean really into it. And steak. I've seen lots of gray sky, and naked trees, gas stations with unfamiliar names, and chicken joints.

And so I will crawl out of my hole and begin the process of nesting. My top priorities for our new home are comfort and function. Home must feel good, and feel like us, and serve us well. I will place my scent on the trees in our yard, and on the brittle winter grass. If I am feeling brave I might even watch and see the frisky squirrels as my neighbors, and resist the urge to snap their picture because they will be here tomorrow, and so will I.

It is time to peer out through my fingers and eyes at all that surrounds me, to take in the stark beauty of winter in our new home, and appreciate it, and fully open myself to the joy and mystery of a new life and new adventures.