Change But Not

This February will mark 19 years that I've lived in Illinois. That's 14 years longer than I'd intended. Now, it looks as though I'll be stretching my time in this state out another year or two... or more.

My first reaction when my husband told me that he'd been offered a job was elation. Finally, I could hand the responsibility of our family's financial well-being off to him. He had completed his degree, and the onus fell to him. He set to work applying for hundreds of jobs from one side of the nation to the other. I knew that my time in the Midwest was drawing to a close. Then he said that the job he'd been offered would be here in Central Illinois. I didn't bother stemming the tears.

Several friends have asked me why I want to leave here, what's so awful about where we live? Nothing is awful about Central Illinois. My issue has nothing to do with the state, and everything to do with me.

You see, my goal in life has always been to travel, to see new things, learn about different cultures, find out who I am when I'm not with people just like me. Unfortunately, due to a series of life circumstances, that hasn't happened. The furthest that I've ever lived from my childhood home in Iowa is here, in the heart of Illinois. I have traveled - England (twice), Canada, and 30 of the 50 US states - but what I haven't done is lived elsewhere. Traveling has its place, and I certainly enjoy it tremendously, but a vacation is not the same as living somewhere. It's like taking a sip of ambrosia before someone whips it away from you. You get to  glimpse your ignorance, only to have to leave without learning how deep it goes.

For those who are happy in the safety of what they know, this must seem odd at best, and downright bizarre at worst. I don't know how to explain it other than to say that my soul yearns to know what's on the other side of the fence, the road, the city, and beyond. That lack of knowledge taunts me, a bone in the face of a starving mutt. No distraction will pull my sights from it. I see nothing but the horizon.

Knowing how I feel - and with a bit of his own wanderlust to contend with - my husband hesitated to take the job. Though the position is ideal in nearly every way, he questioned the wisdom of accepting it. Would doing so cause more harm than good? Would I - could I - accept another year or so in the confines of cornfields and soybeans? Could he? The job would mean financial security the likes of which we'd never known in our married life. It would mean stability for our four children, and us. And most importantly of all, it would offer him a leg-up for any job he wanted down the road. How could he not take it?

So, here I sit, amid the wind-scorched acres of land, wishing that I were anywhere but in this chair, in this house, in this town. Again. Nineteen years is a long time to yearn for something, and though I often wonder if I will ever leave this place, I know that we've done the right thing. For right now, this is where we belong, for better or for worse, and we'll deal with the disappointment. For now.