The things our heart does when we aren't watching

I was miserable for two months last summer. I was somewhere far away (well, far for me-- across the country instead of across the world), without the people I loved, living in places that were vastly opposite from the accommodations I was used to, trying to do something that was not comfortable for me with people that I didn't know. I lived in towns where, at best, my dining options consisted of KFC, McDonalds, or Sheetz (the local chain of gas stations which, if you are unfamiliar with, is glorious). Wal-Mart was the height of civilization, not to mention the ultimate goal for employment for many of the people in the areas I visited. I drove a 15 passenger van with no air-conditioner down rural country roads, some of which barely resembled roads at all, and saw more trailer homes and houses on the verge of collapse than I ever imagined existed in the United States. I hated being away from my family and friends, hated the lack of decent fruit, hated not seeing the Seattle skyline, hated missing the 4th of July with my roommates, hated the humidity, and hated the job I was given. Miserable, I longed every minute to be home.

Somehow, I still miss West Virginia.

While I was there, I never would have thought that I would long to go back just a few months after I had left. Driving toward the Seattle skyline on my way home from the airport the night I got back, I felt completely at peace and ecstatic to be home again. Eight months later, the relief of home has worn off. My mind is free from the stress of my trip and the joy of return. With my heart relaxed into its normal state, I have discovered that, completely unknowingly, I have left part of it in the hills of West Virginia-- in the very trailers and fields and ramshackle towns that my heart seemed to hate just last summer.

I find myself now longing to see fireflies flitting in and out of the thick darkness of a humid summer night. To see the green of open fields against the blue of a cloudless sky. To have someone tell me to "turn on the only paved road and when you see the boat in the yard you're there." To not be looked at funny when I pronounce "Appalachia" the way my friends there taught me to. To get a swirl cone from the Dairy King. To order my sandwich from the gas pump at Sheetz. To drive across a covered bridge. To see Jan and Ralph and Dougy and Dan and Kim and Kris and Mike. To hear Mike describe how he makes the perfect pepperoni roll. To visit Matt and Betsy, and play with Serena and Mia (oh, my heart misses those girls so deeply...) To watch high schoolers replace a rotted trailer floor. To see my tough Sierra try to act so cool all the time. To hear stories. To see love. To be loved.

How did this happen without me even knowing? And now what do I do?