Home, Where I’ve Never Been

Snow. The bane of my existence. Not the snow so much, more the grey dull sky. The lack of sunshine. The icy wind. I lived in Madison, Wisconsin, a great gem of a city in the Midwest, for eight years. Madison gets as cold as my hometown of balmy New Orleans gets searing hot.

Wisconsin has long been a savior, I tell you. I fled there when I was nineteen. I had no idea that geography could help you save yourself. I have escaped a dangerous family system, met the man I was to marry and birth two children with, made lifelong soul friends, many of them men. That was interesting, because before these men I feared most men.

There’s a song by Marc Broussard, called “Home.” It’s a gospel tinged rock-out in the swamp foot stompin’ bad ass song.  He sings, “Take me home, home home ... ” Indeed, nearly a year later, I feel at home. It amazes me that perhaps we have to leave home to find it.