City Heart, Country Feet

I realized recently that I’m a city girl. That’s probably no surprise to many of you who know me well. But I grew up in a tiny town called Fruit Heights, Utah and now I live in another tiny town, Crookston, Minnesota. Sandwiched in between these two places are the magical metropolises of London (only for a few months) and Beijing (for a few years), and Boston. I also had a few brief tours through Hong Kong, Bangkok, Paris, Edinburgh, and Wales (and, yes, I realize Wales isn’t a city) and various U.S. cities.

When I got my mission call to Boston, someone said to me, “Oh, you’ll fit in so well there.” Included in that was a bit of the sinister implication that I didn’t fit in so well in Fruit Heights. That person wasn’t really very nice.

They were right, however. I got to Boston and felt right at home. I didn’t have culture shock until I had to go back to Utah.

When I lived in Bryan, Texas, Matt did his research near Dallas. I would go up with him just to smell the city air and see the buildings. Oh, and visit the Kimbell Art Museum. Wow, what an amazing place. These visits put a spring in my step and renewed me.

It’s so odd, I know. I should love the mountains and find solace in the whispering trees. My heart should long for the solitude of a quiet lake. Isn’t that what normal people do? Go to the ocean to rejuvenate?

Maybe so. But then I’ll just have to be not normal. I do love the ocean… as long as it’s in Thailand and I’ve already spent a few days in Bangkok. I do love the trees… around Harvard Square.

All I need is a good bit of art and music to make me whole. For example…

One time while in the National Museum of Scotland in Edinburgh, I was contemplating one of Rembrandt’s self portraits. The complete museum nerd that I am, I was staring at the painting. Looking at the brush strokes, studying the light. Experimenting with different distances and perspectives to see how the painting changed. And most of all, wondering just how it is that a person can replicate the soul with paint on a canvas.

While immersed in the painting, a concert on a period harpsichord started up in one of the main museum galleries. It was far enough away to not add more people to the room I was in, but close enough to hear the music. I was overcome with beauty and pure enlightenment—almost as if a conduit to truth opened up to Heaven. Every part of me was touched with beauty. It was one of the crowning moments of my life.

I don’t get moments like that in small towns. I like the good neighbor, folksy ways. The careful driving and friendly waves, but I haven’t found transcendence in them.

I suppose there’s a place where one naturally belongs and I suppose my place is in an art gallery or music hall found in a big city. I guess that’s where my heart will always be. Even when my feet are planted on terra firma, small town, U.S.A.