Home.

The first few sights caught my brain by surprise. Emotions tied with the sharp familiarity made me unsure of how to properly process it. 

But I was obsessed with figuring out that surge of emotion tied with every single building, sign, and stoplight. Not sadness. Not excitement. Not really anything I can articulate. But my brain just knew every part of this town all soo well. And every new building, sign, or even house color change stuck out like a sore thumb to me. 

Yet I felt a strange longing towards all of it. 

Not to ever live in my small Minnesotan hometown again. But a feeling of wanting to get another chance at even briefly visiting the life of my childhood. Where grandpa still lived at home with grandma and not in a nursing home, before his stroke and heart attack. Where my parents and I still lived in the house on Duluth Ave, before those other people moved in and added those flowers, that deck, and those two fluffy dogs. Where I was not on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, Vine, Pinterest, and Timehop. Where I was oblivious to big city life, death, and broken families. When I assumed everyone grew up and lived the same sort of happy life that I did. 

But this town is still a time capsule in a way. It's where people still sit in lawn chairs out in their yards and just chat with each other and those who walk by. Where people stop by on their bike rides just to visit. Where life is a little (or a lot) slower than in big cities. Especially Seattle. Where down time is expected, not penalized or looked down upon. Where grandparents still babysit grandkids, because they live right down the street. 

I love Seattle. I love the life I'm living and the adventures I've had and will keep having. But there's something to be said about traditions, small towns, and slowing down.