The Magical Midwest

Seasons Of Change

Prior to today, my last flight was on March 1,2020. Cedar Rapids Iowa to Burbank California, one stop in between. Oddly enough, that flight became my first flight back to life.

Last Saturday, I land again in Cedar Rapids at 9pm. My cousin Ivy arrived a few minutes later and we were shuttled down a dark freeway, directions clutched in our hands. Take a right out of the airport, drive for an hour, veer to your fourth right and continue for about 20 minutes. When the roads get smaller and the traffic less, you'll see the quaint blue home on the left. That's when you’ll know you’re home. My mother will take anyone in for a night or five. The tired, the inspired, the ready to party or ready to sleep for a week.

I arrived the latter, exhausted from being exhausted, stressed from being stressed, and hungry as hell from flying cross country with nothing to eat but two drinks of IPA.

Beef chili sizzled on the stove. My mom, Paul, and their ever wild cute-as-a-button cat Sheba greeted us at the back door.

Town Square

In case you don't know, Iowa is beautiful. Seeing family after a pandemic is beautiful. Being with people, you guessed it, is beautiful.

We walked slowly around the town every morning, warmed ourselves in the infrared sauna, relaxed in the Sanctuary's salt room and shared memories of Clementine. We discussed grand new plans for the spa next door over glasses of freely pouring red wine.

The Sanctuary

One week visiting this mystical town of Fairfield and hope has further risen on my horizon. Ivy and I have talked every day since our return flights and somehow the three of us - Ivy, My Mom, and Myself - have managed to keep our daily step competition going through a group text.

Ah, the miracle of technology. I know I complain almost daily about the dehumanization of this over technologized world, but what a wonder - to talk to my mom and my cousin, to share a photo, a memory, an inside joke - all within one second.

It’s Cold In The Fall

I forget this when I'm constantly hit with emails from work where the faster I reply the more work I generate for myself. I can see the mystery deplete when I swipe through 30 faces of strangers in 25 seconds, yes, no, yes no yes no yes no –

but to pause, to break the monotony. To see a text from a friend, a Happy Wednesday gif from an aunt or a surprise screen shot of a step counter, a photo of a deceased loved one shared between old friends. When because love means “I am here for you, I am rooting for you, I love you.”

Home now hiding under my covers, I close my eyes. The exhaust outside my windows turns to wind blowing around leaves. The dumpster truck backing up seven times becomes the sound of thunder rolling in the distance. I can hear my mom trying her best to walk quietly down the large wooden staircase, Sheba’s light pitter- patter as she follows Paul down to make our morning coffee.

Home Is Where The Heart Is

I know when I open my eyes I’ll be back in my bedroom in Burbank in an apartment I adore surrounded by neighbors whom I love. But I think, just for this one moment, I’ll hit snooze once again and continue to pretend.