Thanksgiving

How does a strange land become your home? I don't know. It is a mysterious and incomprehensible process. Yet, bit by bit, the streets of a strange city take on memories of their own and you stop wandering along them like a detached shadow - you become a traveler like all of the others. 

I borrowed the words from an essay written by Masha Gessen of the New York Times. The words came from her mother, a Russian immigrant to the United States during the Soviet era. I would never want to suggest a relationship between our move here to Silver Creek and that of any immigrant except to say that leaving one's home not of one's choosing is a hard thing to do.

This Thanksgiving, for the first time in a dozen years, since I returned to Georgia from Maine, I will not walk my own garden and select produce for our dinner. We have little in our gardens now, mostly things for spring and nothing ready to harvest. Arriving as I did, in early October, did not leave much time to start things growing.

And so, instead, I find myself relying on what other farmers have grown and spending my "free" time playing with my son and wandering this new, still strange, land.

Is this home?

Home is where the heart is?

Then perhaps. Or, if this is not yet home, it is a home in the making, however far from our homeland.