Laying at the Wheel

This morning I decided to go for a run along the Oklahoma River trails. I'd never been before, but after my first attempt at running in Oklahoma again ended in a scene with me meeting and being chased by three stray dogs, I thought I'd try my luck on a trail instead of in a neighborhood (still thankful for the motorist who saw what was happening and pulled in front of the dogs to block them until I was far enough away). I was saying goodbye before heading out the door, and Cora said she wanted to come with me. I was happy she wanted to come. Then Magnolia wanted to come, and my solo run turned into a family run with Jake coming too. We ran/walked/skipped/lunged/stared at critters (including a snake) from Wheeler Park to Robinson.

Now, I wouldn't say the Oklahoma River is especially beautiful to me. It's brown and mostly still, but I appreciate what the city has done and means to do there. It's kind of like Red White and Boom. I like a free concert and people in the community coming together, and that helps me overlook the fact that I'm in the middle of a parking lot at the state fair grounds surrounded by large metal buildings and likely not too far from a trash can, and depending on the year, a soprano wailing through the sound system has caused me to involuntarily pull my hands over my ears. Nonetheless, I appreciate that the event exists.

When we got back to Wheeler Park, I picked one of the hammocks closest to the Ferris wheel. The Wheeler Ferris wheel was originally in Pacific Park on Santa Monica Pier, a place we know well. As I laid there staring up, a lot was going through my mind, like "wow, it's brave to put a Ferris wheel up in the middle of tornado alley." There's always a breeze in Oklahoma, and as I was listening with my eyes closed, the sound of the wind moving through the wheel sounded like gentle waves; it almost made me cry. Not long after we moved back to OKC from Chicago, I was driving down Villa to my house when a thought hit me so hard: "Why here?" It was a similar feeling this morning. The world is so big, and of all the places we could be, we end up somewhere. Somewhere is better than anywhere.

I stared up at that giant wheel like we were friends, like I understood its longing. It stood for years with one of the world's most beautiful views of the Santa Monica Bay, Malibu, and the city of LA. It had been replaced, displaced, sold on eBay and relocated to OKC on the banks of the manmade Oklahoma River. And there we were together on a Sunday morning a few days into fall.

After eating lunch, I came out to the backyard, trimmed a few trees (there's A LOT more work to be done), and finally hung up the hammock. Church bells are ringing, clouds keep going by, and cicadas are softly singing in the trees. Making a home here has been slow going this time. I think coming back to somewhere familiar made me think I would skip over the transition phase. Despite the familiarity, which I'm grateful for, it's still change, and I haven't given myself quite enough grace for that. I'm looking forward to feeling connected again. Until then, I have my hammock, Mary Oliver's Thousand Mornings and Wendell Berry's Our Only World, and a jar of iced mint green tea on a lazy afternoon.

Reminding myself: This is your somewhere. This is your here. You are here.

[Even if I'm still missing there.]

[I once missed here like I miss there.]

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