I have been particularly homesick lately. This should come as no surprise. I am a Texan living in Tennessee and if you know any Texans you know our particular brand of blind love for the state. The state becomes a kind of quirky family — hip cousins in Austin, big rich aunts in Dallas, drunk uncles abound. You know the kind of cowboy you’re dealing with by the make of their boots. You can guess at a person’s history by asking where they grew up and where they live now. No matter how big the state, how varied the experiences, there’s a kind of collective nod between the people born or naturalized here — we just get each other. Strangers aren’t strangers for long, if we take the time.
Or perhaps this is just me smoothing over the rough edges again. Obviously, there’s plenty to not love about the state. I could go on at length about the politics, the stubbornness, the holy ornery temper of us, myself absolutely included. Outsized egos and under-sized compassion. Not all, but many.
But I’m not focusing on those things right now. In fact, right now I might even look on them lovingly because they are traits I can recognize. I know the extent of those rough edges, where they may come from and why they’re there. We were raised up in the same way. To be a Texan is to have a certain talent for possessing and tolerating conflicting values. Someone here recently described Denton as a place full of aggressive hippies and I felt nothing but pride.
Which is where the homesickness comes in. The hardest part about this move for me has been that I feel like I no longer know anyone at their core. (Save for the Texas expats I’ve met so far and you can guess what we spent all our time talking about.) There’s a current running under this city and state that I have yet to tap into. Slight differences in how people approach and speak to others, little variations in the pleasantries just enough to make me feel lost. I find myself among a sea of cowboy hats and think, “Yes, but where are the real cowboys?” I wonder, often, if I’m too much. Then I’ll turn around and wonder if I’m not enough.
I have this image in my head of me as an older woman. The only way to describe her is open but resilient. Someone who has seen much, done the work, and come home to rest. She is comfortable where she is and where she is matters little because in my mind, she’s the same wherever she goes. She’s made up of all the things she’s done and experienced but at the core of her is still the little girl who grew up in the cattle pasture. I yearn for this woman, contented and confident, and actively wonder how I can become her.
What’s funny is I had this same kind of image in my mind the year before we moved, but this time it was me only a few years older. Happy in Nashville, knowing this city and the people as well as I knew everything in Texas. I wrote more than I had ever written before and I treated myself well, exercised, meditated, read. I would be the same, but better.
And here we now are — I am happy in Nashville (don’t misconstrue this post; homesickness can’t be denied), I am learning this city as quickly as I can, settling into my haunts, making a map in my mind. Just the other day, I gave another lost girl some directions, no small victory. I am writing far more every day than I ever have before. I find some form of exercise almost every day, take long walks. I meditate every morning. I read every night. I am living the exact me that I pictured except that now I am picturing a different me, another level of me that I want to attain. I am always just out of reach.
I have always been wary of procrastination. If I catch myself saying “I’ll do X when Y happens,” I do X as quickly as I can just to prove I don’t need Y. But lately I’ve caught myself saying “I’ll be X when Y happens,” a far more insidious internal comment because there’s no way I can simply become something, with or without Y. And so often, what I want to become is already a version of what I essentially am — the same, but better.
To have a perfectionist nature is to always look for problems. There is an ideal that will never be attained because there is always something missing. Here, I have attained exactly what I wanted but it is still not perfect because I do not yet feel at home. So I pine for Texas, imagine an older, wiser version of me drinking beer on her front porch and sharing a private joke while I sit and drink on my front porch in Nashville and laugh. Like I said, to be a Texan is to have a special talent for being comfortable with cognitive dissonance.
I am settling in, trying to recognize that I am already the thing I wish to be, as long as I can stay that thing, as long as I can keep the path. It’s hard to remember, when you’ve left everything behind, that some things never leave you. The authentic self is there if it is not overlooked. And I’m in good company; Nashville is a city of transplants and we are all searching.