My state sits on a quartz foundation; clear points push up from the ground in a way that could seem ordinary if you don’t stop to marvel. We’ve also grown a lot of rice, some poets and authors, artists and musicians, and one US president. We don’t have an international airport, and even the mail doesn’t come here directly, instead playing hopscotch through a series of cities people have actually heard of before finally—reluctantly—arriving. I haven’t lived here my entire life, but I have lived here for most of it. My family lives here, two generations back. My children were born here. It’s not my favorite place, but it is home.
My garden is very small, as Lady Catherine so scathingly said in Pride and Prejudice. I could try to blame the pandemic, but really that only forced me to be honest about how repetitive our days are. I’ve made the best of it. We have favorite haunts; libraries, parks, coffee shops. But I’ve never felt like a native or even a transplant; more like a potted plant, still in the pot, shoved awkwardly into the existing landscaping and increasingly root bound.
But soon we’ll be moving halfway across the country for my partner’s job, to a city with a population that’s double my entire state’s. We’re returning to an area that I’ve been to and thrived in previously, and I have high hopes for a positive experience this time around, as well. It’s been awhile and I’m an entirely different person now, but I trust that the change has moved me closer to compatibility, rather than away from it. There is a lot to be done before then, and a lot that I can’t start doing yet, but expansion is coming and I welcome it.