Last night I wanted to just get out and do something, just ride for a bit. So I drove into town with the windows down and the new Trisha Yearwood CD playing. I drove past the house that my cousin and her husband and son are hoping to buy, just to check it out. It needs a little TLC, but looks like a really nice house and definitely has potential to be a good home for them. I drove through downtown and went to Sonic to get a java chiller.

There was nothing happening here on a Saturday night, of course. Even though our town is growing some, it’s still very “old timey,” as folks say around here, and while there are options aplenty for lunch, when it comes to supper, not so much. This is a daytime town, so evenings are pretty quiet. And I like that. Sure, I like going to places like Huntsville or Birmingham where there’s plenty to do day and night, but then I like coming home to the peace and quiet. Life is a highway, as the song goes, and it’s moving faster and faster all the time. I like living where it doesn’t go quite so fast. Sometimes it seems odd that I lived in Orlando for 11 years. I wouldn’t trade those years for anything, but it still feels so good to be back here. It’s like cool water to a thirsty soul.

As I drove through town, with the summer evening breeze blowing my hair around and sweet Trisha singing her little heart out, I passed a house where the family was sitting around a table on their front porch playing a game. It was such a Mayberry moment. And in that moment, I felt so full, so aware of what a wonderful moment it was—what a wonderful evening, home town, life. And yet at the same time, I felt so incredibly empty. I love being back here, love the small town, love being around family again. Yet surrounded by all this plenty, I’m keenly aware of what I lack. Someone to sit in the passenger seat on outings like that, or better yet to drive so I can just ride and soak it all in. Someone to sit on my porch with and play games.

But it’s not just loneliness. My job duties have gotten so random and scattered, I don’t feel like I’m focused on anything, and I miss having a feeling of vision and purpose. Before, when people asked what I did, I said, “I’m a writer.” Now it’s become this long, convoluted reply that’s more explanation than answer. I’ve found myself wondering a bit lately, ‘what am I doing with my life?’

It’s odd that I feel so content and yet so discontent. I’m content in my Being, just not in my Doing, I guess. I’ve lived here most of my life but am still learning how to be me here. And I pondered this as I drove back home, sipping my tasty mocha chiller, wiping my hair out of my eyes as I turned off the highway and headed toward home.