My Darling Indiana.
A love letter to my home
My darling Indiana, No matter how old I get, there will always be a country boy wearing grass stains as medals of honor, inside of me. My backyard may no longer be a vast Indiana countryside, but a brick and concrete jungle of mass moving humans, however, that open air still fills my lungs and those silent fields still call me name.
Indiana is the feeling of smelling your mother’s cooking in the other room. Tangible and tantalizing it calls the weary soul back to fond memories of a carefree simple life, where the next best thing was mom’s supper.
What I love about the quiet country of Indiana is its lack of luster and grandeur. It's gentle rolling hills are no competition for snowcapped mountains, its still dragonfly ponds no match for the crashing pacific or deep blue Atlantic. Its beauty does not demand constant lure of exotic or majestic, but cares little if you are amazed or seek thrill. Rather she finds solace in her simple ways, her land always welcoming like the crook one lays their head into another. You love her because you come to her as she is, not to be entertained, but held and rocked once more free from the pains of the world.
Her beauty is found in the rustle of thousands of corn stalks silently marching up into the sun. In pale blue robin eggs that gleam like the eyes of a young girl. Or the fireflies that cause the stars to grow jealous as the ground shimmers with galaxies. The fog that hushes those who thunder in heavy trucks.
She is still and asks you to be silent. Listen, rest, wonder and ponder.
When my heart grows heavy or my mind weary and full, I return to her solace. For there I am free to be, free to let my thoughts once more roam those open quiet spaces, and free to enjoy the simple beauty of life. To me you will always be the place I run back to my darling Indiana.